


A love that never leaves

by bitsandbobsandstuff



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s Bucky Barnes is charming as fuck, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Character Death, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Heavy Angst, Kit-Kats are involved, Nazis and Hydra both suck balls, Remembering is hard, Sassy Howling Commandos, Steve Rogers gets annoyed, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:23:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 73,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitsandbobsandstuff/pseuds/bitsandbobsandstuff
Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.





	1. Chapter 1

**_1928, Berlin, Germany_ **

November fades away with the smell of snow lingering on its dying breath. The last bit of warmth evaporates, bleak darkness finally spilling over with a rush across the world.

She is five-years-old, full of childish giggles and sunny smiles. 

She is eight-years-old, solemnly aware of the dangerous hand fate dealt.   

She is twelve-years-old, filled with fear the night they come for her.

Black uniforms meld with the frosty shadows, terrifying wraiths haunting the moonless night. They stalk down the street with a singular purpose and every living thing cowers before the unrelenting procession of death.

In the top floor apartment of a rundown building, two people move in silence through their dark home, wiping away all evidence of her existence. A bleak task, but one they knew would eventually come due.

Wearing a threadbare sweater, her heavy wool skirt, and soft leather boots, her heart beats wildly when he sets a tattered bag at her feet. All her worldly possessions now live in this small piece of luggage, a once hopeful life reduced to whatever she can carry on her back. Her father kneels before her, helping her slip on a worn black coat and even in the icy darkness of their home, sweat drips down his face. He wipes it away with an impatient hand, his calloused skin catching the grey stubble lining his hollow cheeks and she thinks – he is not an old man.

This is what she’s done. This is her fault.

Shaking fingers fumble with the final button and he glances up, meeting her terrified gaze. All her life, he’s been her one source of comfort, a safe harbor in the wild storm of their lives. Through it all, he’s held his fear at bay, but that time has ended. Tonight, she sees the hopelessness in his heart and horror claws up her throat. She knows what comes next.

His trembling fingers dig deep into her thin shoulders. They shake so much, it rattles her small frame and she grips his elbows to steady them both.

“We’re out of time. Out of options. Please my love, you must.”

“I can’t! Don’t make me,” she begs frantically, “please, I don’t want to, don’t make me, please!”

This is the darkest day of his life. 

Deep in his heart, he always knew this was how their journey together would end. From the moment he understood he’s planned for it, and if there was another way, he would take it. But this is the cruel world in which they reside, and miracles belong to another time.

But the heart is a curious thing. It won’t go down without a fight.

Before all is lost, he drags every memory to the surface, sears the images straight into his soul. Squeals of laughter as he chases her through a leafy green park; the feel of her small sweaty hand her first day of school; awe in her eyes when she saw the endless blue of the ocean. Memories flare white-hot and he drinks them down with agonizing pleasure. Gazing into his daughter’s tear-stricken face, his heart beats with the one truth he will always remember.

Love like this, was worth the cost.

“I know you don’t want to, I know it’s hard, but you must. You must. Do it and hide, just like we practiced. Wait until it’s quiet and then count to one thousand before you come out – take your bag and run. You remember the route?”

“Yes,” she whispers, swallowing down her tears with a tiny hiccup. “I remember.”

She always remembers. It is the others who won’t.

“That’s my brave girl,” he praises hoarsely. “Now, I need you to listen very closely, I need to tell you something. Are you listening? No matter what happens, you need to remember one thing – I will always love you. Do you understand me? Always and forever. This kind of love, it never forgets. It never leaves.”

Later, she’ll come back to his words. Play them on an endless loop. But for now, she simply nods.

“I understand. It never leaves.”

Releasing her shoulders, he takes her hands and brings them to his lips. Even now, when he sees her before him, spindly arms and knobby knees and wisdom beyond her years, he can still smell the soft scent of childhood on her skin. He sucks a deep breath, desperate to commit this final thing before the black abyss takes hold.

“Hurry,” he whispers, and he places her hands firmly on his cheeks. He feels her small thumbs rub his skin comfortingly and he smiles as he closes his eyes. There is a moment of nothingness, the only sound her quick, shallow breaths, until heat floods her cold palms and a faint white light illuminates the darkness, growing brighter and brighter and –

He slumps, unconscious, chin tucked to his chest.

And she freezes at the sight. She longs to cry. To scream. To howl her rage into the heavens, furious with what she’s done, but she has only a few moments until he wakes and if she doesn’t hide, it will all be for nothing.

Turning away, her practiced feet run the familiar path to the small panel in their living room wall, next to the bedroom door. Peeling flowered wallpaper covers the wood and it slides back smoothly when she pushes. Climbing into the narrow space, she moves the wall back into place with a quiet click, right as the sound of angry fists hammer the front door.

There’s a strangled gasp of air and she hears her father climb slowly to his feet. He calls out for the visitors to wait, confusion in his voice, but the request is ignored.

The sound is a small explosion when the front door is kicked open. Wood splinters under the force of their boots and a gang of men tramp into the room. Their heavy boots boom like canons and now a paper-thin wall is the only thing separating her from the nightmare beyond.

“Who are you, what do you – “

The sound of fists colliding with soft skin comes clearly through the wood and she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Shut up, you fool. Where’s the girl?” The cold anger in the snarling voice makes her skin crawl.

“What? Who? There is no one here, no one but me!” her father wheezes, struggling for breath.

“Liar! Your daughter, you’re hiding her, you’ve sent her away! Where is she?”

Blending invisible into the cracked and peeling wallpaper, is a tiny hole in the paneling and she presses her eye against it. The room is lit with lanterns held aloft by men in black and she sees her father on his knees. A tall man dressed in a black wool greatcoat and black breeches towers above him, snarling down. White blond hair shines white in the soft light, a brilliant contrast to the bright red band strapped around his arm, the black swastika vibrant against fresh white. Tacked to his jacket collar is a silver pin and from her vantage point below, she sees the skull shape clearly.

_Schutzstaffel_ , she realizes, sickness in her belly.  _The SS_. Rumors ran rampant through her neighborhood for months, and now here they are, devils in the flesh.

The man grips her father by his hair and jerks his head back, shoving a pistol to his forehead.

“Please, I beg you, I know nothing! There’s no one here, there’s never been anyone else here! I have no daughter!”

This moment. It will haunt her forever, a bullet through her heart. For the rest of life, she will remember his words and a part of her dies on this cold night.  
Her father pleads wildly, his voice rising in panic. For so many others, forgetting was a blessing, but not for him. The last hours of his life will be full of blood and pain. She knows this, an incontrovertible fact.

The man in black barks instructions to the four men waiting by the door.

“Search it all,” comes the sharp command and like feral dogs, they obey instantly. They tear through the apartment, smashing dresser drawers to the floor, flipping the flimsy mattress, slashing apart the shabby sofa with gleaming silver knives, searching, searching, searching, not realizing the one thing they seek watches it all, hidden in plain sight.

“There’s no one here sir.”

With a sneer, her father is wrenched to his feet and shoved at the waiting men.

“Arrest him. He’ll talk eventually. They always do.”

This dark November night is the last time she will ever see her father. It crushes her soul to see his careworn face filled with confusion, unable to fathom the reason he’s to be tortured and eventually executed, but she commits his fear to memory. She owes him that much.

And so, they drag him away, his feeble protests fading into the still night. Their boots clatter down the stairs, but the man in black remains – nostrils flaring, he sniffs the air, searching for the scent of fear. 

His voice is a low rasp, one that will haunt her dreams, in the years that follow.

“If you’re here little girl,” he whispers into the horrified silence of the tiny apartment, “Make no mistake, I will find you. This is my mission now, wait and see.”

He stays a moment more. But the drab apartment walls refuse to expel their secret.

Swearing viciously, he slams a leather gloved fist through the frosted glass of her mother’s antique china cabinet. Sharp fragments rain down, musical tinkles muffling the sound of his departure.

Silence blankets the room now, unending and unforgiving.

Shivers rolling through her body, she rests her forehead against her knees and in the stifling air of her hiding space, she begins to whisper.

“One…two…three…”

*****

**_Present day, French Alps_ **

The small town was one of those locations demonstrating a depressing truth of the world – the passage of time, was rarely kind.

Lost along nearly inaccessible mountain trails, it straddled the dividing line of the France-Italy border, but unlike so many of the charming villages peppered through the region, it never benefited from the tourist hype and ski boom following the second world war. Instead, it folded inward, a self-imposed regression. The homes were run-down, the roof of the grocery store missing shingles, the windows of the local bar warped and discolored with age.

It was the kind of place one goes to disappear. To fall off the grid. 

Bucky Barnes feels right at home.

Whirling funnels of snow follow him into the bar and he pauses in the doorway, blinking slowly while his eyes adjust. An eagle-eyed gaze picks apart the details of the room, identifying potential threats, establishing a boundary. 

The few locals hunkered down day drinking remain silent, uninterested in anything other than finding the bottom of their glass. Bucky mentally catalogues the physical traits of all three, adding them to the bottomless file in his brain just in case. The old man dressed in a moth-eaten coat, blank pale eyes, smooth white hair gleaming. The lanky man with a ragged fur hood drawn around his face, one hand encased in a black wool glove, the other splayed bare on the table. Another old man, rosy cheeked and stocky, shuddering as he nurses a full glass of amber liquid.

Picking his way through the clutter of small tables, Bucky pulls off his gloves as he goes and each figure shies away, curling into themselves, as he passes.

He makes for an imposing figure, he knows that much.

Thick padding lines the long white coat, heavy white canvas pants tucked into white waterproof boots lined with soft synthetic fur. A white balaclava covers the bottom half of his face, the fur lined hood pulled up to hide his dark hair. The outfit is vaguely reminiscent of his past, from years spent in the snowy wilds of Siberia. White was the perfect camouflage and covered head to toe, the only pinpricks of color on the barren landscape were a pair of flat blue eyes.  
Most who saw that blue up close rarely lived to tell the tale. 

Steve had given a twitchy grimace when Bucky noted the similarities, but then again Steve always gets twitchy when Bucky talks about the past. 

“It’s not like I’m happily reminiscing, you mook,” he patiently reminds, whenever Steve’s face falls. “Just trying to fuckin’ remember anything these days.”

Pushing the hood back, he tugs the mask down as he moves toward the bar, licking the broken, flaking skin of his lips. He takes a deep lungful of the stale bar smell, appreciating the dank air over the stifling heat of the mask. Keeping the wall at his back and the front door directly in his line of sight, he slides onto a rickety bar stool. His voice croaks quietly when he utters the request. 

“Whiskey. Please.”

They’re the first sounds he’s made in two days and the familiar syllables feel rusty. The bartender nods, leaving Bucky to investigate the worn oak bar-top. White water rings and gouges that look suspiciously like knife marks litter the surface and he traces his fingers over the narrow scores, counting mindlessly while he waits.

Returning with a dusty bottle and chipped tumbler, the bartender sets them down with a click. Up close, Bucky sees swollen, arthritic fingers, skin stained a dull yellow from years of nicotine leaching from the ever-present clutch of a cigarette. He’s surprisingly dexterous though, twisting the cap with a flick of his wrist and splashing out a shot. He pauses and Bucky feels perceptive eyes sizing him up. 

He knows how he looks. Dark circles smudge the pale skin below his downcast eyes, exhaustion obvious in the slump of shoulders.

The bartender pushes the tumbler forward. Leaves the bottle.

Bucky gives a weary nod of thanks, for once grateful at his inability to hide his exhaustion. He thinks he’s always been terrible at it, at least that’s what Steve jokes sometimes. Although he still remembers nothing from  _before_  his fall, his years with Hydra come back in drips and drabs and he vividly recalls one piece of shit handler gripping his chin with cruel fingers and telling him to “ _buck up_  Soldier”. The men around laughed at the words, a private joke the Soldier was not allowed to know. 

Obviously, he gets it now. Fuckers. 

He tosses down the shot and pours another.

One.

Tips it up again, swishes the alcohol in his mouth, lets it burn for a moment and swallows.

Two.

Repeats the move, unaware he’s done it until its sliding down his throat.

Three times for luck.

Muscle memory. The one form of memory from his past that’s remained perfectly intact.

Pouring a fourth, he sets aside the half empty bottle and curls his hand around the glass. He lets his mind drift, mulling over the last three days. 

The reason for his arrival in this crumbling little village was simple.

Hydra. As always.

It all started a few years ago. After stumbling across an unknown Hydra base in Estonia, where Bucky found nothing but layers of dust, ancient technology, and a silently blinking red light in an abandoned control room, he got with an idea. 

As a precautionary measure, every Hydra base was equipped with a distress signal, just like that red light. Set on a frequency unknown to anyone below a certain rank, they were only activated in extreme circumstances and yeah, it  _really_  pisses Bucky off to admit, but his stature in the organization afforded him the knowledge. After weeks of trial and error, he managed to dredge up the frequency from the hot mess inside his head.

Tony set the dials on one of his super transponders and they waited, fingers crossed that some Hydra moron would unwittingly trip a distress trigger, and they could swoop in for a bit of murder-filled revenge.

Disappointingly, it stayed silent for two years.

But all that time, Bucky waited patiently, because there was a secondary task he had in mind.

Stepping into the dusty archives of his past poses a gruesome opportunity. Steve knows what he’s after, although he usually pretends he doesn’t, because Bucky and his barrage of therapists don’t exactly see eye to eye here. 

The honest truth is that his past is still a blank canvas. A paint by numbers sheet filled with a million tiny tiles, but he has no clue what colors he needs to get started. All he wants, is to find the right shades, the  _memories_  he needs, to start filling in the white spaces. He figures if he can find enough colors to paint his past, eventually all the small pieces will show him the shape of the bigger picture.

Maybe then, his broken ass brain will finally remember it all. 

So, with grim determination, he follows seventy years of horror soaked breadcrumbs, in the hopes he can fill the emptiness in his head. And to be fair, it’s worked. 

Kind of.

The first time the transponder lit up, Steve and Natasha tagged along. They arrived in the rolling countryside south of Krakow, Poland, and when they walked inside the base, Bucky saw the chair.

Two days later, he woke up.

Natasha was perched in the hospital window and Steve was sitting at his bedside sporting a shadow beard and red-rimmed eyes. At Bucky’s furious insistence, Steve haltingly told him, that the moment Bucky saw the chair, he went into a blind panic. Demolished it with his bare hands, before blacking out. It wasn’t even his chair, the one they reserved exclusively for him. It was older, an original prototype perhaps, but it didn’t matter. It was enough to trip the trigger.

He didn’t remember a thing about his episode, which was infuriating for many reasons, but mainly because that was the exact fucking  _opposite_  of what he wanted.

He had to do plenty of sweet-talking so they’d let him try again.

When the transponder started flashing nine months later, much to Steve’s dismay, Bucky came along. They arrived at the abandoned bunker in the foothills of the Ural Mountains, and the moment he stepped inside, it was instantaneous. Horrifying colors painted those white tiles fast and thick.

Razor sharp scalpels. Crackling bolts of electricity. Wide metal cuffs biting into his ankles, securing him to the floor. Bucky folded his hands on his head, closed his eyes, and sucked in ten slow breaths.

Then he opened his eyes, looked at Steve’s tense expression and said, “Yeah. I remember. This place was a real fuckin’ nightmare. Signal’s in the control room. Go left, watch your step.”

Eventually it got easier. It always  _sucked_ , but he figured out ways to keep the environment from overpowering his desire to remember. The bad episodes still flare now and then, but overall, life is better. There’s a little more paint in his brain every day and sooner or later, he’ll see the big picture he’s so desperate to find. 

He hopes, anyway. He really fucking hopes.

Over time, the distress signals dwindled, although there’s one thing still unanswered. Every time the team arrives at a location, ready to break a few bones and kick a little ass, they find nothing and no one - the base is always empty, seemingly deserted for decades. There’s no consistency in the emptiness, beyond one thin thread – every single base was abandoned by the early 1960s. After sleepless nights and increasingly irritated conjectures from Tony, he arrives at a fact based, scientific assessment.

Hydra tech is fucking trash and trash breaks. 

Bucky nodded seriously at the conclusion and asked if he was included in the list of Hydra trash tech.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily.

Tony laughed until he was wheezing.

When the red light started flashing last Saturday night, it was the first time in six months. Bucky was bored, rattling around the tower alone, so he jumped at the chance to stretch his legs. Anticipating nothing but dust and silence, he texted Steve the coordinates, packed a bag and left.

Three days later, he’s disabled the distress signal, and just like before, turns up nothing but echoing emptiness. Rusted doors and layers of dirt and grim reminders of a past better left forgotten. 

And yes, perhaps his past is better left forgotten. But the truth is, Bucky never did know when to quit. 

Finishing off the bottle, he pours one more shot. He runs his thumb along the edge of the glass, feeling the sticky film of liquor, thinking. He could leave tonight, head back to New York. There’s nothing here, nothing to concern anyone. Nothing to worry about, no impending doom.

Except – 

It’s strange. Feels like there’s something he’s forgetting, something he needs to do before he goes. It makes no sense, but the prickle in his chest tells him to stay one more night, and since there’s nothing to draw him home – he decides he will.

Throwing back the shot, he digs a handful of Euros from his pocket, tossing everything on the counter. Tugging the balaclava over his face, he flips up his hood, and slips on the white gloves, thinking of the depressing hotel room awaiting him. Consisting of a creaky single bed, a flea-ridden armchair, and a rickety shower that danced a fine line between ice cold and freezing cold, it’s a complete shit-hole.

He grins to himself, briefly sorry he didn’t persuade Sam to come along – watching him scratch and itch and moan about the fleas would’ve been a nice distraction from the cold. 

Ah well. Next time.

Bracing himself, he steps into the snow. The couple hours he spent belly up to the bar did nothing to calm the storm. It rages louder and harder, the blinding white now a shrieking blizzard. 

“Shit,” he yells, but his words are whipped away, consumed by the wind. There’s nothing to do but make a go for it. 

He starts walking.

After trudging half a mile through billowing drifts, darkness begins to fall, the feeble afternoon sun finally throwing in the towel. 

Bucky rubs the back of his hand over his eyes as he walks, blinking away the icy grit and the white glove comes away smeared with faint pinkish streaks. The angry bits of ice spinning through the air bite the delicate skin of his eyelids, slicing them open and god dammit, he hates the fucking snow. Beneath the heavy coat, he’s sweating like hell and all he wants is the blissful oblivion of that creaky bed. Step by step, the thought of sleep propels him forward through the swirl of white.

There on the snow packed path, is when it happens.

The familiar sensation skates down his spine and he can’t explain how he knows, whether it’s a break in the howling wind, the shuffle of boots through snow, or his super hearing on overdrive, but there it is.

He’s not alone.

Instinctively, he spins in the thick snow and there’s a shrill ping when his metal arm blocks the bullet headed straight for his heart. He knocks it away with a swipe and stops the second bullet with the literal tips of his fingers. The third bounces from his palm, but he momentarily loses direction in the swirl of white and misses the fourth and fifth bullets. Both hit in rapid succession right below his heart, and like a knock-out punch, send him stumbling back. 

Struggling for balance, he throws his arm up in defense, right as an iron bar crashes toward his face. A low gong sounds when bar meets metal, the heavy coat muffling the sound. The vibration is so strong, Bucky hears a man’s breathless grunt of pain when the bar rattles loose.

When he swings his right fist forward, the man throws up both arms to block, but the sheer strength behind the punch is too much. As the guy trips back, Bucky snags his coat and yanks him upright, yanking away the scarf around his neck to reveal a naked column of pale skin. Metal fingers move of their own volition, closing around a windpipe and lifting the body effortlessly.

He has the upper hand, but it’s brief. He feels the steady rush of blood pumping from his body. Waves of cold wash through him, and his brain starts chanting. Shit shit shit. Shaking his head, he tries to re-focus. Shit shit shit. He grits his teeth against the bursts of pain radiating his body. 

“Who are –“ he tries to yell, but he gags at the taste of copper filling his throat. He licks his lips and tries again. “Who – “

Before the word will appear, Bucky’s vision goes dark. Fingers spasm, releasing the man. When the landscape swims back into view, his legs buckle, sending him to his knees. Coughing and spitting, the man crawls from the snowbank and scrambles to his feet, drawing his pistol as Bucky struggles to breathe.

“Soldat?” he shouts, shocked surprise in his voice. 

Bucky snarls in response, glaring at the man. Curling an arm around his body, an unconscious attempt to hold his insides together, he stares down the barrel of the gun pointing straight between his eyes. He has no idea who this guy is, but he doesn’t question that the man knows him. Everyone knew the Soldier.   
The man is staring down at Bucky with suspicion.

“What the hell is this? Why the fuck would you trip the alarm?” he yells.

Nostrils flaring, Bucky refuses to answer, his mind whirling. He didn’t set off the alarm. This asshole didn’t set it off. Yet here they both are, answering a call from a ghost.

He sees the finger hovering over the trigger and he braces himself.

Above the screaming wind, the next gunshot is disturbingly quiet. Eyes bulging, the man jerks and lowers his gun, looking down to his chest in surprise. There’s a moment of suspended disbelief, before a lethal red flower blossoms across his chest, seeping through the thick coat.

Tumbling backward, his arms and legs windmill as he hits the snow, a macabre salute to the snow angels Bucky remembers children making in Central Park. Choking up thick spatters of red, his body gives a final lurch and he goes still. 

Panting quick shallow breaths, Bucky nearly falls over trying to turn in the snow, to face his savior. Ripping off his glove, he shoves a hand inside the coat, fingers instantly drenched when he presses them against the two small holes in his chest. With a final bit of strength, he draws his own gun just in case, squinting into the wall of white. His hand remains strangely steady despite the wet rush of life speeding from his body and he tries to speak, but his lungs refuse to help.

_Who are you?_

A blurry figure appears before him. Finger caressing the trigger, Bucky wills himself to hold until he understands what this is.

_Who are you?_

The figure draws closer, dressed in white and holding a rifle. Bucky tries to blink away the black spots now bubbling through his vision.

_Who the hell_ are _you?_

The figure halts. A gloved hand reaches to pull back the hood of the white coat and a woman’s face appears. Even through the howling wind, Bucky hears her question clearly and he doesn’t understand why the two syllables feel like a knife ripping through skin and bone and thick sinew, straight to his heart.

“Soldier?”

She speaks hesitantly, her voice tinged with a peculiar hint of hope. Bucky wants to ruminate further, but his fingers are rubbing the slippery edges of his gunshot wounds and the snow around him is greedy, lusting for the hot blood he spills.

He wants to answer. He tries to answer, he really does.

Instead, he falls face first into the soft snow.

*****


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. Bucky recovers from a shit situation and learns more about the person who found him. Remembering is really hard and memories do not cooperate.

_**MISSION REPORT** _

_CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT._

_WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –_

_For what? The words evaporate. Smoke in the wind. The pencil clatters to the floor and rolls away and his notebook follows. He goes to his knees in front of the brick wall and he slams his fist against it again and again, until his knuckles are shredded._

_He screams._

 

****

 

Bucky’s entire body is on fire.

Burning hot, scorching him from the inside out. This can’t be right, he’s  _done_. He’s supposed to be  _done_  with this shit, what are they doing now? Bleary eyes open and he tries to speak. To tell them no, to leave him alone, to please just fucking stop. Heat races through his veins, suffocating him and he feels rivers of sweat coursing down his face, down his chest, down his arms. 

Above him, floats a blurry face, both intensely familiar and completely foreign. She wipes a cold cloth over his face and Bucky sighs in relief. 

Darkness comes again.

 

*****

 

_We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…_

The melody flows like water inside his head and Bucky follows it slowly, swimming languidly into consciousness. When he breaks the surface, his brain comes to life, but his eyes stay closed.

It’s a trait he perfected over the years, waking up without anyone realizing. Back then, he’d quickly discovered if you’re flat on your back and don’t know where you are, your safest bet is certainly not to show them you’re awake. Once they know, you lose your advantage.

That’s usually when the pain starts.

Instead, he starts his internal assessment. Ears straining for any hint of sound, he waits, listening for anything. The intake of breath, a quiet sniffle, the whisper of fabric, a footfall. Anything. The silence stretches and he’s finally forced to conclude – either his captor is just that good, or he’s alone. 

Cracking an eye, he draws a soundless breath, taking stock of his surroundings.

This is – interesting.  

The room he’s in is dim, suffused with swaths of muted daylight streaming in through the massive window in front of the bed. His eyes track the expanse of clear glass, stretching from the floor, extending up the vaulted ceiling and ending in a wide skylight. A small fireplace is tucked into the corner, a basket of logs piled next to the dark slate tiles, and the soothing pop and crackle of wood lulls him toward a sense of false security. 

Snow still falls outside, but it’s no longer the wailing blizzard; instead, fat, wet flakes drift quietly by, piling onto the tall evergreens hugging the window. 

Feeling the silky sheen of satin against his skin, he peeks under the sheets to find himself nearly naked, wearing nothing more than a crisp white bandage and skin-tight boxers. 

“What the sweet fuck  _is_  this shit?” he mutters, dropping the sheets and struggling to sit up. The bed is wide and covered in all shades of blue – a dusty blue duvet, sky blue sheets, a midnight blue quilt – and suddenly it all mixes into a watery blur when his vision goes sideways. Pain rips through him and he flops back, whining softly. Pressing gently against the bandage, the pain flares so fast, he digs his heels into the bed, spine arching unconsciously. He can feel it, actually feel it, the tugging sensation of his skin knitting itself back together. Sweat instantly pours down his face.

“Don’t scream,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “don’t scream you fuckin’ baby,  _don’t_.”

Clamping his lips together, he swallows the sounds he’d desperately love to howl, focusing on counting the snowflakes drifting past the window. He loses count of the deep, calming breaths he takes and long minutes later, the worst appears to pass. For now. Bucky’s rigid muscles begin to relax.

He appreciates the whole healing fast thing, he really does, but the process is just fucking unpleasant.

Swinging his legs over the bed, toes curling into a plush rug, he wobbles to his feet. Looking around, he searches for his clothes, but he comes up empty handed. He doesn’t actually mind the lack of clothing, it’s more the lack of pockets for weapons that irritate him.

But a good solider can make a weapon from anything, so he snatches a log from the basket next to the fireplace, rotates his arm until the plates shift smoothly, and creeps from the bedroom.  

Tiptoeing down the steps to the first level, he stops short. 

The small town he’d infiltrated was derelict, gritty, downtrodden.

The home he finds himself inhabiting is the polar opposite.

Wooden steps lead down into a cosy stone and log cabin. The small kitchen has an island with a couple hand-hewn stools and an oak butcher block in the middle, burnished copper pots hanging from a rack above. The floor is a deep russet red, the wide-planked floorboards containing a myriad of knots and whorls. Above him, thick beams stretch the expanse of the room, with dark iron lighting fixtures casting a rosy glow through the room. In the centre wall of the living room, flanked with tall vertical windows, stands a fireplace, the uneven shapes of grey river rock fitting together seamlessly. From the tall windows, he has a clear view of a foggy mountain range. Another fire crackles and pops merrily in the calm silence. 

A cracked white pitcher filled with pine boughs gives off a sharp, clean scent and Bucky finds himself struggling to remain overly vigilant, because it’s beautiful. It’s a  _home_. 

Beauty means nothing though. A lesson he learned the hard way through the years.

Slinking into the kitchen, he rummages through the silverware, turning up three finely sharpened knives. Two, he tucks into the elastic band of his boxers, feeling instant relief at the feel of the blades hugging his hip. The third, a large butcher knife, he flips around and holds outward, ready to swing.

Switching into stealth mode, he goes to work.

Rifling through kitchen cupboards and drawers. Lifting throw pillows and blankets from the sofa. Scanning rows of books arranged in alphabetical order. Searching a small linen closet. Ears perked for the sound of footsteps outside.

And yeah, he finds a few things.

A few weird things.

It starts in the small closet. Buried under a pile of quilts, he finds a heavy metal box. Pulling a bobby pin from the perpetual tangle of colorful hair-ties he keeps around his wrist, it takes a few tries before he has the lock picked. Lifting the lid reveals a perfectly folded pile of worn t-shirts. Shaking each out, he scans the logos – emblazoned across each one is a different city from Bon Jovi’s 1986  _Slippery When Wet_  European tour. 

They’re just old t-shirts, the kinds you find people hawking at concert venues or in the bargain bin at a thrift store. Nothing special or expensive. Yet here they are, folded into neat squares and tucked into a box that could probably withstand an explosion. 

His confusion spirals, but Bucky fights a small smile. It seems odd, but hey, he really likes Bon Jovi too. Maybe he would do the same.

Re-folding the tissue thin cloth, he locks the box and stuffs it back in place.

Trying the bookcase next, he pulls books out, feeling behind them. Knuckles rap at random, tap, tap, tap, until he hears an unexpected thunk. The hollow sound gives it away and with a shove, he shifts the back panel and finds another small locked box. Holding it under his arm, he fiddles with the bobby pin again and the lid cracks. Two items appear.

A crushed red velvet jewelry bag.

A handful of cheap vintage postcards in a clear plastic bag.

Crouching to the floor, he shakes the contents of the jewelry bag free. A handful of silvery-blue pebbles clatter out and in the middle of the pile, a necklace. Bucky holds the worn chain up to the light. Spinning slowly on the end is a round disc, a little dingy and rubbed smooth, but he can see the outline. 

Bucky wasn’t exactly a good little Catholic growing up, and yeah, religion wasn’t the sort of personal expression Hydra encouraged for the Soldier. His knowledge of saints was spotty as a kid and is extensively worse now, but he recognizes the medal – he knows Steve had one, wore it during the war and was wearing it when his plane went down. He donated it to the Smithsonian when he returned. Most of the military seemed to have one back then and Bucky assumes he had one as well, although he has no clue.

On the little medal, is the image of Saint Michael. The patron saint of Soldiers.

Fingering the medal pensively, he tries to summon a memory,  _any_ memory. He figures he must have something in there that could build off this particular war-related trinket.

But no. Just like always.

Setting it gently aside, he opens the clear bag instead. Pulling out the postcards, he lines them carefully up in front of him, internally translating the languages.

  * Covered with palm trees, an exuberant statement in French:  _Welcome to sunny Nice!_
  * A colorful boulevard linked with green trees in Spanish stating:  _The Beauty of Barcelona_
  * A laughing cartoon caricature of a man holding skis in Swiss German:  _Enjoy your Winter in Zurich_
  * The solemn announcement in Italian, written over an image of the Coliseum:  _Hello from Rome: The Eternal City_
  * Orange and red leaves, covering a giant beer stein in German:  _Oktoberfest in Munich!_
  * And the dogged mantra of the stoic English, tall white letters against a soft pink backdrop: K _eep Calm and Carry On_



But the one that piques his interest the most, is last in the pile. A hand-painted postcard, the paint chipped and faded through time, of the Brooklyn Bridge at night. The title above in carefully printed letters reads:  _Brooklyn, New York – Thank God It’s Not Jersey_. Bucky feels his heart stutter at the words, because he’s pretty god damn sure he and Steve used to throw out that same phrase. 

On the back of the Brooklyn postcard, he finds the inked shapes of two hearts tangled together.

Bucky stares hard at the image, so simple but vibrating with some unknown meaning. Flipping through all the other cards, he finds them blank, nothing more than a pretty collection. Bewildered and careening toward frustrated anger, he gathers them together and slips them into the bag. He bangs the box shut and hides it away again.

He finds three more locked boxes in his search, each containing innocuous items. One with a thin, moth-eaten baby blanket. One with a random assortment of old  _Life_  magazines.

After stowing away the final box, housing an envelope with three sepia toned photos of a tall man and a small girl, he spends another ten minutes searching for clues. Finally, he’s convinced the room has shared all its secrets - until he notices the crease in the rug below the coffee table.

Shoving the table aside, Bucky flips up the rug. In the middle of the floor, he finds a plank of wood slightly thinner than the others, with a small chink in the edge. Crouching down, he runs his thumb around it and nudges it up, finding a hidden space below.

There he finds one more box. His beleaguered bobby pin gives a final brave attempt and with a quiet snick, the lock pops open. 

Inside are three dusty books. Peeling gold letters line the spine of each, showing a single word, followed by three different numbers. 

_Journal, 1967_  
Journal, 1968  
Journal, 1969 

From the pages of 1969, a ticket stub flutters to the floor.

 

*****

 

Under the fall of lacy snowflakes, she walks. Circling the small cabin for hours, her toes are damn near frozen, but she finds herself unwilling to go back inside. He has to be waking soon and the thought of facing him makes her chest ache. Instead, she walks the narrow path along the bank of the rushing stream bordering her home and argues with herself.

_Go inside. Ask him. Talk to him. See if he remembers. Tell him the truth! He deserves to know. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear it. Maybe he’ll just kill you and be done. Probably not though, you’re not that lucky._

Hysterical laughter bubbles up and she digs the puffy gloved heels of her palms into her eyes. She really needs to get out more. This constant talking to herself thing will get her institutionalized someday.

But she literally has no one else to talk to. And that right there, has always been the problem. 

Brushing the snow from a giant boulder, she gingerly sits. Bending forward, she drops her head to her knees and wraps her arms around her legs, trying desperately not to give in to the panic attack threatening to drive its anxious fingers into her brain. Memories begin to swirl and even after all this time, the sound of his voice rises so easily to the surface, a sweet, drawling Brooklyn twang that turns her stomach to knots.

 

> _“Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en France qui ne m'aiment pas?”_
> 
> _“Can I walk you home?”_
> 
> _“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise I will.”_
> 
> _“You’re what I want. You’re what I’m always gonna want.”_
> 
> _“You and me, this kind of love, it lasts forever, okay? It’s never gonna leave.”_

 

“Dammit. Shit shit shit,” she chants to herself. Thick and heavy, the memories press down until she buckles under the burden of remembering. Tears begin to fall, hot trails down her face and she wipes them away, her hands shaking. 

She stays on the frozen rock, letting time pass while the cold seeps through her clothes. The air is so icy, it makes her lungs seize.

 

*****

 

The butcher knife lays beside him, within easy reach. Bucky sits cross-legged on the floor, flicking through the pages at random. He pauses now and then, digging deeper, losing himself in the faded ink of another’s life.

 

> **19 May, 1967**
> 
> America is strange. I arrived in Los Angeles with no goal, just rented a car and drove. First to the coast and saw the ocean. It was different than the first time Papa took me – I’ve never seen anything so blue. I tried not to think about it, but it was in my head. It’s always there. Blue everywhere. The water, the sky, his eyes. I can never leave it behind.
> 
> The songs on the radio here, they’re different too. It feels like the heart of this country is screaming and I see why. Vietnam is different. This war, it’s unexplainable maybe, but there’s a frustrated weariness in the words. 
> 
> But then again, is it really that different? No matter the fight, Soldiers still give their lives and leave their sweethearts crying in the streets. They promise to come home, that ridiculously naive optimism of youth, and instead they die in a battle they never wanted to join. It’s the universal truth of every fight, since the beginning of time. The tears should be enough to stop this all from happening, but no. War keeps coming, one after another, and soldiers answer the call.
> 
> I still remember what he said that night. It’s stayed with me more than anything else. They’ll run out of soldiers eventually, he said, like he was nothing more than a cheap commodity. He was so tired by the end. I should have helped him.

 

> **11 April, 1968**
> 
> Last week I was walking by the book stalls down at the Seine and saw a bargain bin of English language books. I found a book of poetry and I swear to god, that damn thing fell open on this:
> 
> He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
> My working week and my Sunday rest,  
> My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
> I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
> 
> The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,  
> Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,  
> Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;  
> For nothing now can ever come to any good.  
> W.H. Auden
> 
> I don’t think I could find a better articulation of my mood. Either Fate has something against me, or I’m just that unlucky. I bought it. I couldn’t help myself.

> **21 July, 1969**
> 
> Sometimes, I think miracles do still exist in this world.
> 
> Down at an old hotel, the entire town was crowded in the dining room. They had a TV balanced up on a shelf so everyone could see and they caught the BBC1 broadcast. The entire room was dead silent. It was overwhelming, I can still hardly imagine it. A man walking on the moon!
> 
> The whole time I kept thinking how much he would have loved this. How he would have laughed. How he probably would have tried to sign up to be a spaceman! The more I remembered, the more I thought about that night by the river, after we first met. All those stars in the sky. Decades later and I still wonder about it – how it’s possible to be so in love with someone – but then again, how could anyone fail to love him? He was so warm, so full of life and excitement and dreams. God. We had so many dreams, so many plans for the future. We were so naïve, thinking the world might owe us a little happiness. What a joke.
> 
> And now here I am. Alone with nothing but memories – just like always. That life we wanted, it’s as far away as the moon. Unreachable and impossible.

> **1 January, 1970**  
>  ~~We never~~   ~~He was~~   ~~I thought~~  A Soldier with a metal arm?

 

The journal ends there. 

Bucky looks at the ticket stub that fell from the delicate pages and the words bring forth a wavering reel of images, brand new and unfamiliar.

 

> _**Moulin Rouge New Year’s Eve Ball  
> ** _ _Admittance: 1 Individual  
> _ _31 December, 1969_

 

The black lacquer of a piano. Silver sparkles reflecting from crystal chandeliers. The scent of fizzy champagne and the tang of blood and a dark apartment overlooking the twinkling lights of Paris.

Disoriented, Bucky sets the book down. What the hell is this? Who is she? She must be Hydra, she has to be. How else would she know the Soldier? Why did she take him, what does she want? Why does she have journals from so long ago, what do they mean?

It’s the eternal tragedy of his god damn life – always questions, never answers. He looks around the warm, peaceful little cabin and scrubs his hands down his face. He needs to plot his next move, but the bullet wounds throb with fresh, fiery pain and he’s suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted.

So, he remains seated, surrounded by pages upon pages from someone else’s life.

Blinking back frustrated tears as he stares at the books, he knows without a doubt, that these three years of writing hold more memories than he could conjure in the lifetime he’s lived.

Distantly, he hears the slow crunch of boots on snow. Rousing himself from the miserable train of thought, he scrambles to his feet, turning to face the front door when footsteps hit the porch steps and begin to climb.

Bucky wipes the tears from his eyes. And he lifts his knife.

 

*****

 

Pacing back and forth across the small porch, she stops in front of the door and reaches for the handle.

And draws away again. Curses and keeps pacing. Tries again, pulls back.

“Open the door, you god damn coward,” she whispers harshly.

Squaring her shoulders, she turns the knob and pushes it open before she can lose her nerve. Stepping inside, the room is silent, just as she left it. Orange flames flicker in the fireplace, the smell of smoky wood and pine needles hangs in the air. She shuts the door quietly, shakes out her coat and hangs it on the rack. Taps the snow from her boots and unwinds her scarf. Rubbing her temples, she takes a deep breath and starts for the stairs, determined to face him.

She takes three steps, before the wind is knocked clean from her lungs.

The heavy body hits her from behind, one arm curling around her chest, the other pressing her butcher knife against her throat. The voice in her ear is so gut wrenchingly familiar, she nearly faints. 

“Leaving a strange man alone in your bed with access to knives – not your best move.”

When he was lying unconscious wrapped in her quilts, she thought he seemed smaller than she remembered. Now, the breadth of his body against her back makes her realize just how wrong that assessment was. 

“Yes. I should have hidden the knives,” she tries to speak. “Something to remember next time.”

“Tell me who the fuck you are.”

She should be terrified right now. The most prolific assassin of the 20th century has a razor-sharp blade sitting at her throat and a metal arm digging into her chest. With the slightest move, he could crush her lungs or slit her throat. He wouldn’t even have to  _try_. 

She should be terrified, but she’s not. Because the years, the  _decades_ , have been nothing more than an empty echo without him, and now he’s here. Against all odds,  _he is here with her._  Relaxing in his arms, she leans back and closes her eyes.

Bucky stiffens abruptly at the movement. 

Her hand floats up and reaches for the wrist flexing at her throat. She feels his grip tighten further, but for some reason, he allows her curious touch. Fingers trembling, they find the thin ridge, running down the long white scar curving from his right thumb across the back of his hand. 

It’s nothing more than a gentle caress, but – 

Like a hammer to his skull, his head splits head open. With a frightened snarl, he shoves her away and she stumbles forward, catching herself against the sofa. Slowly, she turns to face him fully. 

Dark hair frames his face in sweaty tangles and his blue eyes are wild. 

“What the fucking hell  _was_  that?” he hisses. The knife is held outward and he scratches at the scar, trying to scrub away her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing her throat. “I wasn’t – I’m sorry.”

“How the hell did I get here?” Bucky barks. “Last thing I remember, I was gut shot and bleeding out in a god damn blizzard.”

“I found you. Brought you here.”

“Yeah, obviously. Except I’m fuckin’ heavy and no offense, but you don’t look much like a super soldier. So, I’ll ask again - how the hell did I get here? Who else is working with you?”

“No one, it’s just me. And I’m not  _working_. You – I don’t know, you just followed me. When you collapsed in the snow, I rolled you over and shouted your name, and your eyes just – they opened and you got to your feet.”

Bucky glares at her. “Convenient, that you knew my name. And how to wake me up.”

Jaw clenching, she glares back now. “I  _didn’t_  know how to wake you up. You were bleeding everywhere, but you stood there like you were waiting for something.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he grimaces. He thinks he knows what’s coming.

“Say I believe you. Then what?”

“You asked for instructions, so I told you to get in my truck and I brought you here. I’m sorry, I didn’t know – I wasn’t sure what to do. When we got here, you wouldn’t go upstairs. You just laid down on the dining table and – ”

She pauses, but he sighs resignedly. “Keep going.”

“Both bullets, they were still – inside. I had to dig them out. I got bandages and tried to stitch up the wound. You were awake, I  _thought_  you were awake, the entire time. You were telling me what to do. Kept asking if – you kept asking if I was new.”

Bucky feels his face heat in embarrassment. Shifting uncomfortably, he grudgingly explains. “That was a secondary protocol. Something happens to the Asset, it’s programmed – I mean  _I_  was programmed - to help fix the problem.” 

The cabin is quiet for a drawn-out moment. 

“Oh,” she finally says. Her voice sounds small. 

“So? You’re former Hydra then?”

She blanches at the comment. “What? No! I was  _never_  with them.”

“Really,” Bucky says sarcastically. “You just happened upon me and knew my name and brought me to a cabin in the middle of nowhere for no reason? That was all just luck?”

“Stop being a jerk. I said I don’t work for them,” she snaps, anger seeping into her voice. “I’d slit my own throat first.”

Bucky goes quiet, considering the statement. His loses some of the hostility when he replies, but his tone is still suspicious. “But we know each other. You know him. Or – me. The Soldier.”

“Yes. I know the – Soldier.”

“Well, I don’t remember you,” Bucky says harshly, and he watches her face fall. He feels a pang of remorse at her disappointment and almost points out that she’s not unique, he never remembers. But he holds his tongue.

Eyes dropped to the floor, her shoulders sag. “I didn’t expect you would.”

An awkward silence fills the room. Bucky feels that strange ache in his chest once again, a desire to smooth the unhappiness from her face, and an apology tumbles from his lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t remember. Trust me, it’s definitely not you.”

“No.  _Please_  don’t apologize,” she says quickly, looking up. She shakes her head like she wants to say something more; instead, she swallows the words and offers an olive branch. “Do you want to know? I mean - do you want me to tell you?” 

Bucky considers the offer. Before him stands a lovely woman. One who knew the Soldier, who met the worst incarnation of himself, but without the security of Hydra to help her. He comes to a swift, depressing conclusion.

Chances are, he did something shitty to her.

Does he want to know then? Does he really need another gruesome memory clogging up his brain? 

Sure. Because Bucky never knows when to quit.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Tell me. I want to hear it.” 

“Okay, I can do that,” she says softly. She motions him to sit on the couch, but Bucky hesitates.

“Can I, uh, have some pants first?” He asks stiffly. “This is sort of awkward.”

The surprise on her face makes Bucky think for one fleeting moment that she might laugh. But then she nods and disappears through a small room off the kitchen. When she returns, she’s holding a neatly folded stack of fresh laundry and he recognizes the contents of his backpack. 

“Here,” she sets it cautiously on the dining table. “I’m sorry I went through your bag, I didn’t have any men’s clothing, so…anyway, I washed it all.” 

Bucky snatches his ragged Captain America t-shirt and black sweats from the top of the pile, shimmying into them. Pulling a rainbow colored band off his wrist, he ties his hair back and drops to the couch. 

She takes the armchair across from him, as far away as she can get in the small living room, and tucks her hands under her legs. Bucky knows he’s unlikely to enjoy whatever she has to say, but he folds his fingers together and waits. She stares down at her feet, appearing to gather her courage before meeting his grim stare head on.

Her voice is steady, as she starts to speak.

“Paris was cold that December and it snowed early. It was New Year’s Eve in 1969.”

 

*****


	3. Chapter 3

**_31 December 1969  
_ ** **_Paris, France_ **

The deluge of snow pauses for a few minutes, long enough for her to hail a taxi from the steps of her apartment. Time, normally inconsequential and meaningless, seemed to blur that year. Cool wet spring and hot baking summer. Warm sunny autumn and now cold snowy winter. Through it all, a single thread loops around, knotting the months together. She feels the sting of bitter despair when she contemplates the fact.

After all these years, of running and hiding and starting from scratch again and again – here she remains.

Forgotten. Alone.

It feels exceptionally poignant tonight, as the end of another decade arrives. Clawing her way up from the self-loathing pit of her past feels utterly impossible. Why should she move on? The memories caged in her heart are more vital to her survival than anything else she owns.

Right there, that's the key word - survival. This is not living; she knows that. The simple truth is that she's forgotten and alone, because she chose this life. Self-imposed regression, isolation in the purest form. To  _live_ , feels insurmountable because she has no clue how the hell she's supposed to simply let go.

She knows though. She knows she  _should_. For him.

This is not the life he wanted for her.

She owes him more than the hollow shell she's become.

Maybe this is it, she tells herself. Maybe this will be the year she rediscovers what it means to live. Maybe this year she can exorcise the ghosts of her past and finally move on.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. A fool's mantra.

Lifting the hem of a black satin evening gown away from the grey slush, she steps carefully through the shoveled path to meet the driver. Sliding into the backseat, she adjusts her long, billowy black coat, tucking it under her knees.

"Moulin Rouge," she requests and her voice is resigned.

How she allowed herself to be roped into a party tonight, she's not sure. New friends, still bursting with sheltered optimism, insisting on making the most of their youth.

 _Youth_. What a funny idea. Her youth disappeared long ago, but the hallmarks of age refuse to visit - no grey hair, no wrinkles around her eyes. Nothing to mark the passage of time, other than the ancient ache fused to her bones. She appears much the same as she did back in 1943, which is soul destroying all on its own.

The world keeps moving forward, but nothing about her wants to follow that same trajectory.

Foggy car windows obscure the lights of Paris as the taxi navigates the crowded streets. From inside, the world resembles a watercolor painting, dabs of muted yellow, smears of soft black. Rolling down the window, she tips her face into the night, letting clean, cold air fill the car. The world returns in sharp relief, the smell of the city filling her nose, bringing a sting of wistfulness; chestnuts roasting in buckets, the heady scent of champagne from the tippling glasses toasting on the sidewalks, the piney smell of decaying needles from Christmas trees piled on street corners. The noise is deafening, as the whole of Paris flocks to the streets, celebrating the end of the 1960s. Even now, 25 years after the Nazi occupation, the city remains hell bent on squeezing every last bit of living from the hours in their grasp.

Part of her wants to encourage them to calm down, to take a breath – it won't happen again, it can't happen again, the world won't let it. But that's what they said in 1918.

Instead, she smiles at the excitement, at the unwavering lust for life. Although she doesn't partake, she still understands the desire. She just wishes she could feel the same.

The ride takes longer than usual, but that's okay. She's in no hurry to arrive and feign excited smiles through the long night. When the lights of the Moulin Rouge appear, the giant windmill flashing white and red and gold lights, she tries a pep talk, psyching herself up.

 _You can do this_ , she tells herself.  _It's only one night. You can do this._

The driver pulls up and the attendant rushes for her door, offering a white gloved hand to help her exit. Stepping from the car, she adjusts her coat, lifts her chin and curves her lips into a reasonable replica of a smile.

Glancing to the attendant, she offers her thanks.

The words die on her tongue.

Above the sea of people clogging the sidewalk, she sees the back of a tall man striding away, shoulder length hair brushing broad shoulders. The shade is so perfectly familiar, a glossy chestnut hue she can see wrapped around her fingers, her breath stops.

Hope stabs her, so viciously consuming, she staggers and grips the car door tight.

_Was that -_

But in the next heartbeat, he turns the corner and disappears, and reality crashes down. She saw nothing, because there was nothing to see. Nothing more than her traitorous brain playing tricks, because that part of her life no longer exists. Sometimes there are just so many memories crowded inside, they have no where to go but back into the world. Some days she sees ghosts everywhere, their shadowy footprints stomping through her heart.

 _Stop. Please stop. Let him go_ , she pleads with herself.  _You have to let him go._

The impossibility of the request weighs her down, but she vows in that moment that she will at least try. Perhaps this will be the year she turns over a new leaf. The year she finally lets him go.

Resolve vibrating through her, she lifts her chin once again and marches into the club.

*****

_Just a few more hours._

The refrain plays on repeat in her head. Louder and louder, the words throbbing in time with the headache she feels brewing.

In all fairness, she's trying. The room overflows with bodies, stuffy and hot, and she swears to herself that she's trying, she  _really is_ , but she can't stop peeking at the gigantic clock situated in the middle of the ballroom. Just a few more hours until she can take off this gown and ditch these heels and crawl under her covers with a bottle of wine.

And contemplate how the hell she plans to survive another decade like this.

Plucking a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray, she gulps down the delicate fizz. Touching the cold crystal to her damp forehead, she closes her eyes and she smiles wryly when she considers one very important point.

If she has nothing else in this world - at least there will always be bubbles.

Minutes creep by, the crowd getting drunker and more exuberant as the clock ticks closer to midnight. She makes small talk, keeps the smile glued to her face, laughs at jokes that are thoroughly unfunny. All the while, counting down the minutes until she can make her escape.

Beside her, a group of Americans are telling a story, full of imitations and boisterous laughter. Leaning away, she tries to tune them out, focusing instead on the one highlight to the evening. There, from across the room she hears lush, beautifully complex melodies floating from ivory keys. Piano music dances above the melee and the sounds of big band classics are nostalgic and comforting. The pianist is exquisite, rotating easily through a medley of old favorites, and she lets herself relax.

Contentment steals over her for the first time the entire evening.  _Maybe it's not so bad here,_ she admits to herself.

But she really should realize - the world is not on her side. A jarringly familiar chord rings out.

And she freezes.

 _Oh god. No_ , she thinks.  _No._   _Move. Get out of here._

It strikes something broken deep inside and she wonders if the ghosts of her past are really, truly intent on wrecking her tonight. Whipping around, she searches desperately for an escape, but the ballroom is filling further, a veritable barricade of merrymakers preventing her from fleeing.

Like musical ivy, the mocking notes float around her, winding and twisting and tangling inside her head, wrapping tight around her throat. Around her heart. Although no words accompany the song, she fills the blanks perfectly fine by herself.

_We'll meet again...don't know where...don't know when..._

For all her earlier promises to move on and forget the past, this party's not doing a god damn thing to help. The song slices apart her tenuous resolution, opening up that place in her brain where she keeps them all, those priceless memories from her past.

On and on it plays, and she feels the hysteria begin to choke her.

_Keep smiling through...Just like you always do...'Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away..._

There are no smiles for her. No blue skies. Only black clouds and black dreams and black death, waiting to consume her.

 _Get out, get out, get out,_ her heart screams. She shoves harder, fighting to break from the crowd and panic descends.

"Only sixty seconds until midnight!"

Climbing to a pedestal on the bar, a garishly dressed performer in a black top hat and high heeled boots screams and the waiting crowd roars in return. In the next moment, the music comes to an abrupt halt. The memories are still hot electricity crackling over her skin, but the harsh reality of the present floods back in and she breathes a shaky sigh of relief.

Party horns and streamers and bags of confetti are passed around and she accepts one distractedly.

 _Too much_ , she thinks.  _This is too much._

And from nowhere, too much, becomes something far worse.

Like the undulations of the sea, the crowd shifts and from afar, she glimpses the piano player who fired the bullet into her heart. Even seated, she can see he's tall and broad shouldered. She feels a strange twist in her stomach and a shiver goes down her back.

Because from behind, she recognizes him from earlier this evening. When the light from above shines down on shoulder length, chestnut brown hair, her teeth begin to chatter.

He stands from the piano then, stepping around the seat. As he moves, she feels her body follow, as though he's a puppeteer and she's the marionette on his strings. The rapid flutter of her pulse hammers a staccato beat in her ears and she tries to push forward, her eyes trained on him. When a waiter stops next to him, offering a glass of champagne, he accepts it and takes a long drink. She notices he wears black gloves, a peculiar accessory in the swelteringly hot room.

Sweat drips down her temples and she wipes it away, ignoring the light smear of make-up transplanting onto her fingers. The words are dancing in her head, rising from the surface, as she feels herself saying it out loud, although she cannot hear the sound of her own voice.

"Turn around, please, turn around."

In the next moment, her wish is granted.

The man turns to the side. Perfectly straight nose. Plush lips lifted in a disdainful curve. There in the ballroom of the Moulin Rouge, while 1969 takes its dying breaths, she sees the profile of a man who has haunted her dreams for as long as she can remember.

Her entire world goes silent.

The last moments of the countdown begin.

 _10_...he steps to the side of the piano...

 _9..._ carefullysets his drink on the shiny black lacquer and buttons his tuxedo jacket...

 _8..._ andpicks up his glass to drain the remaining champagne...

 _7..._ he hands the empty glass to a passing waiter...

 _6..._ and she seesa woman reaching for him, vying for his attention...

 _5..._ but he moves his arm away, ignoring the insistent appeal...

 _4..._ he glances up to the massive clock on the wall...

 _3..._ and his cold eyes fixate on her...

 _2..._ he remains utterly still, eyes narrowing as he holds her shocked stare...

 _1..._ thensharp elbows are jostling her from every angle and suddenly she  _stumbles_...

_Happy New Year!_

When she regains her balances, she pivots wildly, searching the blurry sea of faces, hoping, praying,  _shouting_  for him. The crowd swells and parts again and again, but it's no use.

He's gone.

Black and silver confetti rains from the ceiling and gold balloons bounce around the laughing guests. People are kissing, hugging, laughing, welcoming 1970 with open arms. In the middle of it all, she stands frozen. Confused tears slide down her cheeks and in the thunderous roar of happiness, she hears nothing but the familiar shatter of her heart.

*****

In her apartment, there is a juliette balcony in the small living room. The home is basic and utilitarian, nothing special, except for the view. It overlooks the city and the sparkling lights of Paris satisfy her desire for beauty like nothing else.

Curled in a worn armchair in front of the balcony window, she shivers against the icy night air, drinking a glass of gin.

 _You're insane_ , she thinks, gulping down the burning liquid.  _It was the song, nothing else. It's not possible. It wasn't him._

No, it's not possible. It can't be possible.

But still – she waits.

And in that dark hour before dawn, someone does arrive.

Nothing more than a soft footfall, alerts her to his presence. She sets the glass carefully on the floor and rises slowly to her feet.

Behind her stands a dark shadow, holding a rumpled tuxedo jacket by the tips of his fingers. A beam of light strikes his chest and through the crisp white shirt, she sees hints of silver glowing luminously, a tinge of blood red at his shoulder, silver plated fingers balled in a loose fist. The top few buttons at his collar are undone, and through the gap she sees streaks of red marring pale skin.

Somehow, there is a metal arm bolted to the man's body.

Blinking slowly, she looks him up and down.

"Is this a dream?" she whispers, searching for clues. "Are you real?"

He simply stares back, regarding her dispassionately.

"Jimmy?" she asks softly and he twitches at the word.

"No," he growls, his voice pitched deep. Where she expected a lazy Brooklyn twang, she hears nothing but clipped consonants.

"Okay," she agrees softly, while her heart splinters. "What do I call you?"

"My name is Soldier. That's all you need to know."

He looks like him. God dammit, he looks  _exactly like him_.

With two steps, he closes the space between. A mocking smile plays across his face as she stands her ground. When she reaches a hesitant hand to touch him, he catches her wrist, twisting it in a cruel grip, not allowing her fingers to find his skin. Jerking her roughly to him, he turns her around, her back flush against his chest and shoves her forward until she hits the wall. Wrenching her other wrist up, he pins both above her head and leans into her. The metal fingers pinch her skin and his breath is hot in her ear. She feels every hard inch of his body pressed against her, and he smells like dust and sweat and something tangy she doesn't want to know.

"I saw you watching me earlier," he rasps in her ear. "I could see it in your face. Tell me yes. Tell me I can have you."

She tries to turn, but he won't permit it. The sinister edge in his voice stirs something wanton buried inside and when she whispers her answer against the wall, there's no hesitation.

"Yes. You can have me. You can have  _everything_."

At her submission, his lips trail greedily down her neck to fasten on the skin over her pulse. He sucks  _hard_ , drinking up the heartbeat he finds thrumming against his lips. A faint, purely unconscious purr leaves his throat as he remains there, his tongue occasionally massaging the flesh he seems determined to ruin. Dragging a warm, calloused palm down her chest, he tugs insistently at the sheer lace covering her breasts. Baring them to the freezing air swirling through the room, her nipples tighten as rough fingers skim over them.

Sucking hard at her skin, brushing gently over her breasts. Softly licking the tender spot at her neck, cruelly pinching her nipples. Each feeling elicits a sharp gasp of confusion, a strange contradiction of sensations.

The languid pace confuses her. He could take everything if he wanted, she'd accept it without question. But for some reason, he doesn't. Instead, he seems content to stay there, tasting her skin, teasing her breasts, until she begins to beg.

_"Please."_

Something snaps when he hears the word. It lights up something feral inside him and a low snarl rips from his throat.

"Good. I like that," he grits out. "I like begging. Say it again."

The blistering heat of his touch brands her skin when he grabs her hip, impatiently rucking up the flimsy nightgown. The patent leather of his dress shoes feels cool against her skin when she feels him nudge her calves, spreading her open and the metal grip on her wrists tightens as he slips his hand between her legs.

She stutters out a moan at the feel and he gives a growl of approval at the discovery, how  _wet_  she feels. He strokes back and forth, maddeningly slow, until she's bucking her hips, chasing his hand. Hot breath fills her ear and the sound of his voice sends chills racing up her spine.

"I said, say it  _again_."

With no warning, he shoves two fingers inside her and sinks his teeth into her shoulder.

Tears sting her eyes and she cries out. It's been  _so god damn long_  since she's been with anyone, the harsh treatment does nothing to temper the need coiling in her belly. Just the simple feel of him, his thick fingers, blunt and rough, sends her instantly close to the edge. The moment his teeth release her, he licks over the deep indentions and starts fucking her with his fingers.

"Oh god," she chokes out. "Please. Please, please,  _please_."

His heavy body keeps her captive against the wall, her cheek pressed to the cold plaster, allowing her to do nothing more than take what he gives. Faster,  _harder_ , he fucks his fingers into her, stroking his thumb over her clit and she relishes the way each sharp thrust forces her up onto her toes. It comes quickly and suddenly she's close, so close,  _so precariously close_ , her body clenching around his fingers and she closes her eyes, holding her breath.

He stops.

Thick fingers buried inside her, the Soldier waits, curious for her reaction. She pants harshly against the wall, a brief rush of shame rolling through her, but heavy want grips her and she can't help herself. Pushing back against him, she wordlessly begs him to continue. Casting a heavy-lidded glance behind, she sees him peering down between them. Remaining motionless, he watches as she circles her hips, mesmerized by the way her body swallows his fingers as she rocks herself back and forth. He allows her to continue, taking her pleasure from him, until he looks up and meets her eyes.

Abruptly, he removes his fingers and her body jolts at the loss.

Mouth curling into a sardonic smile, he drops his hand to the front of his suit pants and she feels him fumbling with the button on his trousers, hears the ting of his zipper when he yanks it down. Her entire body shivers, waiting. He tugs the suit pants just low enough to free himself, his hand gripping his cock, the velvet softness brushing against her skin, an intense contrast to the unbreakable steel of his body. The heat is  _immense_ , his skin feels like fire against her and she basks in it.

She's been so cold, for so damn long.

Releasing her hands, he turns her roughly to face him and his mouth finally slants over hers in a bruising kiss. She feels his tongue tangle with hers, his lips manic. Grabbing the front of his shirt, she clings to him, meeting the punishing kiss with everything in her. He rubs his hand between her legs once more, strokes himself with the slickness he finds dripping down her thighs and lifts her up against the wall, settling her legs around his waist. Forcing himself impossibly close, his entire body touching hers, he buries himself inside her with a fierce snap of his hips.

Her head knocks back against the wall, but he chases it, fighting to keep her kiss. Metal fingers grind into the wall above them, pieces of pale green plaster showering down and she hears a soft whirring, a series of synchronized clicks rippling down his arm. The flame hot touch of his right hand clutches her waist and each pull out is a slow drag, letting him savor the wet heat. Each thrust into her is hard, driving himself to the hilt.

It hits her then, with his hips pressed flush against hers. Pleasure bursts through her and she comes hard, groaning into his mouth, unraveling against him.

The Soldier drinks up her soft cries, grinding himself into her. Slipping his hand between them, he thumbs over her clit and the sweet friction sends electric sparks sweeping over her skin, prolonging her orgasm. Without thinking, her teeth clamp down and she bites his lip so hard she draws blood.

He jerks back with a hiss.

Baring his teeth in a furious scowl, he stops moving, glaring at her. She stares back, wide-eyed in the face of his fury and waits for the axe to fall. Part of him knows a desire to punish her for it, to make her hurt - she can see it warring behind his eyes. But another part, some hidden desire, tamps him down. Licking over his lip, the familiar taste of his own blood and the feel of her soft mouth creates a potent cocktail. He slams himself back into her, brutal, terrifying hard, and her back scratches painfully against the wall while he wildly chases his own end.

Clutching him close, in her blissed-out haze, she hears him panting in time with the slap of his hips. Whispered words flow from his mouth, broken syllables in unknown languages, but she thrills at the rough sounds. He drives into her harder, again, again,  _again_ , and one final time, before he goes still. The sound of his groan is nearly silent in her ear, and she feels the rush of warmth between her legs.

She closes her eyes and tucks her face into his neck.

This is not him, not the same man she remembers. But it doesn't matter.

They remain locked together for a spell, until the Soldier's breathing evens and he lets himself slip from her, lowering her feet to the floor. He steps away, tucking himself back in the trousers. She leans against the wall, goosebumps blooming up her shaking legs, the sheen of cold sweat drying on her skin. The lace nightgown ruffles up with a gust of fresh January air, clearing the heavy scent of sex from the air.

No words are spoken and he seems mildly reluctant to leave. She takes that as a sign then. Perhaps his business here is unfinished, because business is certainly what brought him to Paris tonight. She sees it now. The speckles of red, splattered lines across his shirt, and she asks the only thing she can conceive.

"Why did you come here? Are you going to kill me?"

The Soldier cocks his head. Cold blue eyes roam over her body and he answers her questions with one of his own.

"Do you deserve to die?"

She stares back at him. Watches him tuck dark hair behind his ear. Notices his silver arm catching the light from the streetlamps below. Sees the final remnants of emotion fade from the bright blue eyes.

Her answer is honest.

"Maybe. I don't know anymore."

The Soldier doesn't respond. He picks up the tuxedo jacket lying on her bed and shrugs into it.

"I'm only authorized to kill those on my list. You're not included."

Bitter disappointment floods her features. Fat tears fall silently into the hollow between her breasts and then he clucks his tongue softly.

And  _there_ , right beneath the iron exterior, she finds it. The faded imprint of the ghost from earlier and it spurs her forward. Gathering her courage, she asks her question again.

"Then why did you come here?"

The Soldier smooths the sleeves of his jacket, hiding the blood-soaked cuffs of his white shirt. She can almost see his brain flipping through the answers he keeps on file, searching for the appropriate response.

His answer is honest.

"I saw you earlier tonight. I wanted you. I never get what I want," he says, anger apparent in his voice. "There are always people available. Willing women. Willing men. I didn't want them. I wanted you. I have no reason why."

Hope surges through her. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe a man exists beneath the murderous exterior, something she can save.  _Someone_  she can save. Stepping toward him, she reaches for his hand.

"Then stay. You can have me, just – just stay."

He frowns. Pushes her hand away. And then he tears her heart in two.

"You misunderstand. I'm not interested in staying. I don't need comfort. I finished a job before I came here, and I wanted to relieve the stress. I needed someone to fuck and I wanted to fuck you."

The words are a savage slap in her face and she recoils at his robotic response. Behind the murky veils in his mind, the Soldier hears a faint echo, a voice shouting. But like smoke on the wind, it fades before he can ascertain the meaning.

Grief emanates from her in waves and it triggers something in him. An excuse rises up before he can bite it back. There is no reason he needs to offer it; the Soldier does not receive comfort, nor does he offer it.

Until now.

"Besides, they would find me. They always find me. It's better for you if they don't."

The callous statement is momentarily softened, but she knows better. Still, even with the coldness in his voice, she knows she'll never forgive herself if she doesn't try one more time. So, she reaches for him again.

And one more time, he catches her wrist, stopping her.

But now, he brings her hand to his mouth. Eyes drift closed, beautifully long lashes spikey black against his pale face, and he presses his nose to her skin.

Perhaps somewhere in his head, it could all be stored away - the feel, the taste, the  _scent_  of her skin. Something sweet, when the bleakness of his life becomes too much to bear. But like everything else in his mind, it will be scrubbed away. Memories do not exist for the Soldier. Hydra will steal them, hoard them, crush them. Every single time.

"Don't go. Please, don't go. Don't leave me."

Blue eyes blink in confusion at her request and for one glorious moment, she believes he'll listen.

Instead, he lets her go. Like the ghost he is, he moves so swiftly she barely sees it happen, but the door closes, and he's gone.

And here she remains. Alone again.

Rubbing the soreness circling her wrists, she sinks to the floor. The delicate nightgown twists uncomfortably around her hips, but she ignores it. Silent sobs wrack her body as she curls into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around herself.

Cold. Always so  _god damn cold_.

The sticky feel of him drying on her thighs is the only indication he was ever more than a dream. Hopeless tears fill her throat and after all this time, she wonders how there are still any left in her body.

It doesn't matter.

They arrive like a tidal wave, breaking over her, destroying everything in their path and dragging her under.

*****


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky thinks he fucked up, but she talks him down. Also he loves comfort food and hates stitches and I agree with both those feelings. They learn a little more about each other including a BIG discovery at the end. I’m very hungry after writing this and you’ll see why (diets are stupid).

**_MISSION REPORT_ **

_NEW OBJECTIVE IDENTIFIED. RECONNAISSANCE REQUIRED TO DETERMINE APPROPRIATE COURSE OF ACTION. OBSERVATION WILL CONTINUE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE._

_Was this it then? How could it be possible, after all these years? He just wants answers. Something to clarify the jagged outline of the puzzle plaguing him night and fucking day._

_Balancing the notebook on his knees, he grips the pencil so tight, the sharp point of lead snaps and goes spinning across the page._

*****

Sometimes when it happens, it’s like running face first into a brick wall.

The outline was there in his brain, a lost memory he never knew he needed to find. Now, with the story she offers, the paintbrush in his head goes crazy, spilling out the colors of an icy, destructive night in Paris. Memories return, a blizzard of blurry faces and voices crackling like radio static.

_Black-gloved fingers moving effortlessly over ivory keys. 10, 9, 8. Sparkling people and fizzy champagne. 7, 6, 5. Excited screaming. 4, 3, 2. Beautiful eyes, watching him from across the room. 1. Confetti and balloons bouncing. Screaming. Screaming. More screaming. Terrified screaming. Blood on his fingers, soaking into crisp white cuffs. Slipping like a shadow from a locked room. Stalking through the streets of Paris, heading back to base, until, until, until. The detour. Green paint on her walls, an open window with fluttering curtains. A trembling body dressed in satin and lace. Pleasure. Force. Rough hands, rough words. The feel of her clinging to him like he meant something. Like she wanted him. Heat licking up his spine, heat between her legs, heat in her mouth. And then tears. Sadness. Disappointment. Always, disappointment._

He remains frozen in shock, until he finds his voice. He jumps to his feet.

“Jesus,” he chokes out. He drags shaking hands through his hair and the wild tangles snag around his fingers. “ _Jesus_. Did I - I  _raped_ you? Oh, my fucking god,  _fuck_. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m  _so fucking sorry_ , I don’t – ”

He falls mute. The apology sits heavy on his tongue and he wants to apologize for an eternity, but this is not for him to be upset. He’s not owed the relief of tears: those are reserved for victims, not criminals. Instead, he remains silent, awaiting the condemnation he deserves.

But to his disbelief, it doesn’t come.

“No! God, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” and now she stands up, trying to assuage his horror. “You  _didn’t_ , that’s not what happened.”

“Sure sounds like it was,” Bucky grits out. His hands are clenched at his sides and a faint whirring creeps from his arm when it recalibrates, a physical representation of his panic.

“ _No_ ,” she repeats forcefully. “Listen to me. That is not what happened. You didn’t, you don’t understand, I wanted – ”

She stops in frustrated confusion.

“Still, I – “

“Bu – sorry,  _Soldier_  – “

Apologies collide, and both fall silent. Bucky tries first and his voice is quiet.

“Bucky. Please. My name is Bucky.”

Wetting her lips nervously, she tests the syllables on her tongue.

“Bucky,” she begins, embarrassed. “Listen to me. I hadn’t been with anyone that way for a long time. I wanted - that. I wanted you. That night, I wanted you.”

Bucky stuffs his hands in the pockets of the sweatpants and stares at his socks. They don’t match, and he wonders fleetingly where all the socks in his dryer go. He wiggles his toes as he thinks.

“That night, you were waiting for someone else though – you thought I was someone else. Jimmy.”

He looks up and sees the wind of his words blow the light from her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is tired. “I did. I thought, I  _hoped_ , maybe I would see him, but – he didn’t come.”

The look on her face speaks of a loss so devastating, it steals his breath. “Oh,” he finally says. He has nothing else to offer.

Considering the checkered past they apparently share - and he knows it’s all true, the memories are back again, slotted back into the space from where they were previously wiped - Bucky doesn’t understand why she hasn’t thrown his ass out the door. He’s grateful for the reprieve. Undeserving, but grateful. Inflicting his presence on her any longer though, seems selfish.

“I should go,” he says heavily. “Thank you. For saving my ass. For cleaning me up. I didn’t deserve it. I’ll get my stuff and go.”

He takes one step and black spots explode in front of him. Grasping the edge of the couch, he stumbles, and she reaches for him. Leaning clumsily into her, he grunts at the bursts of pain flooding from the wounds in his chest.

“No,” she says. “Those two bullets nearly hit your heart. I don’t even understand how you’re walking right now, but you’re not going anywhere until you’ve fully healed. Please.”

“Really, I’m fine - ”

“Really, you are  _not_ ,” she interrupts, steel-edged voice brooking no argument. “Stay. I insist. Get some sleep, let yourself heal. Then you can head back.” She hesitates, before the next sentence. “The world can wait, Bucky.”

Something in her tone makes him pause. It feels important, like there’s more to this exchange than meets the eye. Bucky feels the age-old desire to wrack his brain hit him hard.

“Okay,” he mutters, looking down. “If it’s really not a problem - I’ll stay. Just a few days. I, uh, I heal pretty quick.”

“Yes, I thought you might,” she murmurs, letting go of him.

Bucky waits for his vision clear, fiddling with the hair tie around his wrist and snapping it a few times to ground himself. “Once I’m not totally useless though, you gotta let me earn my keep. I’m not lying in bed all damn day.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “If you get up to bed and stay there, I’ll find some things for you to do when you feel better.”

“Helpful things?” Bucky clarifies.

“Yes, helpful things. I promise. Now go back to bed. I didn’t spend all that time stitching you closed so you could rip it all open and bleed on my floors.”

“Alright,” he agrees, giving her a small smile.

There’s that peculiar longing in her voice when she speaks again, the same as he remembered when she found him in the snow and her words brand him in the oddest way.

“Stay as long as you want. It’s nice to have someone around, no one ever comes up here.”

Bucky nods his thanks and shuffles slowly toward the stairs. As he walks, he thinks he hears her whisper his name, but it must be the wind blowing outside.

*****

The odds of Steve flipping his shit when Bucky calls are high. Toying with his phone, Bucky grimaces before he punches the  ** _STEVIE G_** button and waits. Blinking little dots fill his screen, and when it connects, he sees a big forehead and snarls of damp blond hair.

“Hey man. How was it?”

The phone shifts and Steve’s whole face comes into view. He’s eating Skippy peanut butter straight from the jar.

“You were eating that last time I called,” Bucky responds. “You ever gonna do anything useful, or just sit around in your underwear?”

Steve scoops a huge blob and stuffs the spoon defiantly in his mouth. “It’s a new jar,” he mumbles defensively.

“Lazy little shit,” Bucky adds, grinning.

“Okay, time for you to fuck off,” Steve replies, now washing it down with milk straight from a carton with  **TONY**  written down the side in black sharpie. “How was it? Find anything?”

“It was fine. Another false alarm.”

“Great. Headed back soon then?”

Bucky chews the inside of his cheek and looks away. “Yeah, about that. So, I may have run into some issues – ”

Milk splashes on the table when Steve bangs the carton down. “What’d you do?”

“Well hell, Rogers, I’m kinda offended. Why do you always assume it’s me?”

Steve snorts like an irritated bull and rolls his eyes. “Because. Have you met you?”

“That’s fair _,_  but this time it wasn’t me. I swear. I was heading back to the hotel and ran into this guy, some Hydra asshat asking if I’d set off the distress signal at the base. Anyway, he’s pretty dead now, but the fucker hit me with a couple gunshots and – ”

“Hit you with a couple  _what_?” Bucky’s always surprised Steve’s voice can hit that high note - it sounds a like he’s taken a kick in the balls. Bucky ignores it and keeps talking.

“– and I’m  _fine_ , Steve. It’s fixed, I’m all good, I just want a few days to recover, so I’m staying a little longer.”

Steve’s already stomping into his room and throwing open his closet. Yanking an army green canvas duffel from the top shelf, he throws it on the bed and starts digging through his underwear drawer. Bucky sees a handful of demure blue boxers and one pair with neon pink Captain America shields go flying into the bag while Steve mumbles to himself.

“Steve. Steve. Rogers,  _listen_ ,” but Steve just plows along, ignoring Bucky and muttering about the shortest flight paths and weather reports and meetings to reschedule and all of a sudden, Bucky panics. Pulling the rip cord, he shouts a single word.

“Kit-Kat!”

Steve freezes.

For good reason.

Years ago, when Bucky was mired in a particularly crappy depressive episode, he decided to make a blanket fort in his room. He stayed huddled in the retreat for a solid week, grudgingly emerging only to scrounge up food and get fresh batteries when his TV remote went dead. It was in the middle of the night, while he was watching ‘ _Twilight Zone_ ’ reruns, that Steve crept into the room and sat beside him. No words were spoken, he simply hugged his knees to his chest and sat in silence.

During a break, a Kit-Kat commercial came on. The click and snap of the candy bar and the merry little tune of ‘ _give me a break, give me a break_ ’ squeaked quietly from the TV and Bucky’s voice was groggy when he spoke.

“This is really hard. Sometimes, I just – I need a break.”

Steve hummed his agreement and through the thick blankets, Bucky felt the comforting pressure of Steve’s hand on his shoulder. “I know. How about you and me make a deal? If things get to be too much and we need a real break, where you just get to be alone, no questions asked – we say that. Say Kit-Kat and everyone’ll back off. It’ll be like a safeword. Okay?”

The pile of blankets is silent, but a minute later Steve hears Bucky’s voice whisper. “Okay.”

“But you can’t use it often,” Steve says firmly. “This is only for the big ones. You only get to use it when you  _really need it_. Deal?”

The ‘ _Twilight Zone’_  theme song buzzes from the TV, playing through the entire refrain, before Bucky’s hand slowly emerges from the pile. He holds it in the air and waits. Steve grips his fingers to shake and without thinking, unconscious movements walk them through the stupid super-secret handshake they created in 1927.

Bucky still wonders how the hell his body remembers these things, when his broken brain couldn’t recall his own name for decades. Steve reminds him some things are like that.

Muscle memory. Some things just stick.

The pact is binding. Rarely used, but unbreakable when granted. Since their agreement, Bucky’s used it twice and Steve’s tried it once. Now, Bucky watches Steve’s jaw working, peanut butter smudged in the corner of his mouth, and he knows Steve wants to argue.

But a promise is a promise.

Steve drops the duffel bag with a muffled thump.

“Alright. But you better fuckin’ call if you need something. None of this ‘I can get by on my own’ bullshit. Understood?”

“Hey man, that line was all you, not me,” Bucky reminds him and Steve grunts irritably. “But yeah, ‘course I will. Thanks buddy.”

Before he hangs up, he gives the phone a mocking salute and a wide smile. Steve rolls his eyes and flips him off, very pointedly pushing the end call button.

Silence surrounds him and his smile fades as he looks around the room. Exhaustion fills him then and his limbs feel like lead. Collapsing onto the bed, he buries his face in her pillow and closes his eyes.

*****

He sleeps for 48 straight hours.

He gets up a few times and stumbles to the bathroom, eyes half closed and leaning against the wall because he can barely keep his balance, but otherwise he’s out cold. The gnarled fingers of the nightmares always strangling him slither up his neck, searching for purchase, but they’re rebuffed. Again and again and again, they bay for his blood, but for some unknown reason they’re pushed away.

What a god damn relief.

*****

It’s late morning on the third day, when the sound of his stomach growling kicks him awake. Huffing out a soft whine as he stretches, he rubs the grit from his eyes and lifts the blanket. Tugging gently at the tape around his bandage, he sees splotches of green and yellow bruising around the area, and finds two wounds that look weeks old, scabby and starting to itch.

“Good morning,” he hears and looks up to find her standing in the doorway with a purple mug of coffee.

“H-,” he croaks, voice rusty with disuse, and he clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry. Hey. Good morning.”

She walks slowly toward the bed, as if not to spook him. Bucky tries to smile, wincing just slightly as he struggles to sit up. Extending the mug, he accepts it gratefully and takes a long drink.

“Damn, that’s amazing. Thank you.”

Returning his easy smile, she motions to the wound and holds up a small scissors. “I can take those stitches out, if you want. Unless you’d prefer to do it yourself.”

Letting an unknown person near him with a pair of scissors seems like less than intelligent behavior, but Bucky’s never been a fan of stitches – putting them in or taking them out. Broken bones, concussions, burns, those are no problem. But anything that includes  _sewing human flesh together_? That’s at the top of his  _nope_ scale.

“God yeah. Please.” He throws the blankets aside and swings his legs over the edge of the bed looking up at her. “How do you, um…how do you want me?”

“That’s fine, just sit up straight and, um, if you can – lift up your shirt?” Bucky nods and pulls up his t-shirt, removing his right arm and then hesitating. He ends up with it half-way on, keeping his left arm and the thick red scars around his shoulder, hidden from view. Clearing his throat, he looks into his lap and waits.

Kneeling between his legs, her fingers are freezing when they touch his skin and he flinches slightly.

“Sorry,” she murmurs apologetically, pulling away and rubbing her hands on her thighs. “My hands are always cold.”

“S’okay, just surprised me,” Bucky replies quietly. She glances up with a fleeting smile and goes back to work.

For the strangest reason, he feels himself begin to blush. Which makes no sense, because how many times has he been buck-ass naked in front of doctors and never batted an eye. But now, he swallows self-consciously and maybe he sucks in his stomach and flexes just a little, because for some wild reason, he cares what she thinks.

Which makes no god damn sense.

She doesn’t seem to notice though, tongue between her teeth while she snips carefully at the threads and tugs them loose. Once they’re gone, she squeezes a bit of ointment on, rubbing her thumb gently over the scab, and puts a clean bandage in place.

When she’s finished, she looks up to find him staring awkwardly down, his face flushed a splotchy red.

“Are you okay? Do you feel warm?” She reaches a cool hand to his forehead and Bucky gets flustered.

“No, no,” he says hastily, and he nearly tumbles off the bed when he ducks away. “I’m great. Fit as a fiddle. It’s just the fire, kinda hot in here, and you have lots of blankets and they’re so fluffy, and I’m, yeah. Whew! Hot stuff. Anyway.”

Bucky wants to sink into the floorboards.  _Hot stuff?_   _What the hell was that?!_  he groans internally.  _Have you ever even talked to a woman? Get your shit together you fucking moron!_

His verbal stupidity surprises her, but thank god she ignores it. Standing up, she crumples the used bandages.

“If you’re tired, you should keep sleeping. It’s good for you.”

Bucky shakes his head and adjusts his shirt. “I’ve slept more these past few days than the past two months. Usually have - nightmares and things,” he tucks loose hair behind his ear, frowning at the admission, “but I’ve slept perfect here. No nightmares at all.”

Her eyes light up at his admission. “That’s great. I’m glad.”

“Besides, you deserve your bed back.”

“No, you’re recovering, you need to stay in here – ”

Bucky holds up both hands to stop her. “Yeah, no. You’re not winning this one. If it’s still okay, I’d like to stay a couple more days. Pay you back for helping me. But I’m taking the couch downstairs and if you try to make me sleep in here, I’ll sleep downstairs anyway and this very comfortable bed will go to waste.”

Hands on her hips, she raises her eyebrows, staring him down. Bucky feels momentarily cowed, but he gives just as good, so he folds his arms and stares back.

Finally, her lips twitch and he hears a small laugh. The sound makes his blood sing.

*****

The days tick by.

And it goes like this.

Every morning, she comes downstairs to find him sitting on the couch, blankets perfectly folded into neat squares. He hands her a cup of coffee, asks what he can help with today, and her long list of home improvements begins to shrink.

Every evening, she makes supper and they talk, and Bucky quickly realizes how much he enjoys these evenings. It should bother him, he thinks, to feel so oddly at ease with this woman who’s essentially a stranger. But he finds himself sharing bits of himself, absorbing those pieces of  _herself_  she hands over. He relaxes more in a few days of knowing her, than in  _months_  of living with his team in New York.

Every night, she tells him to sleep well and she climbs the stairs up to her bedroom. He listens as she gets ready for bed, the quiet path of her footsteps a soothing predictability. When the footsteps go silent, he fluffs out a blanket and gets comfortable on the couch, so he can think.

And all through the night, he dozes in fits and starts, staying awake in the darkness to keep watch over this unknown woman who saved his life.

*****

_“It’s just always so damn cold out there. You know what I miss? Soup.”_

_“Hmmm. Soup would be good. What kind?”_

_“Um…potato? My Ma makes the best damn potato soup. Warms your bones right up.”_

_“I have some potatoes left in the cellar. Come over tonight, I’ll give it a try.”_

*****

“Can I ask what you were doing up here?” she asks, stirring her soup. Bucky ignores caution and dives right in, chomping into a steaming potato and gasping in pain.

“Damn, this is  _amazing_ , I love potato soup. Haven’t had it in years,” he enthuses, fanning his mouth. He swallows the scorching bite and takes a swig of water. “So, there used to be an old Hydra base near here. Been abandoned forever, but one of the old distress signals went off. I came up to investigate.”

Fishing in the liquid for another potato, he captures one and looks up to meet a wide-eyed stare.

“I never knew there was a base around here. Did you find anything?” she asks tightly. Bucky sees her fingers clutch the spoon so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t snap.

“No, nothing. It’s happened before, couple other places. Old bases breaking down, tech sparking out,” he says quickly. “Never anything wrong when we get there. It’s nothing to worry about, I promise. Just Hydra shit finally crapping out. It’s a good thing.”

“You’re sure?”

Bucky hears it in her voice. He’s intimately acquainted with the sound of fear. His spoon clinks when he sets it down and he gives her a reassuring smile.

“I’m sure.”

She’s keeps stirring her soup, thinking. When she asks a question, her voice wavers. “The man I shot. Was he Hydra?”

Bucky knows that sound as well. The uncertainty of someone who was caught in the moment, who fought violence with violence. “Yes. He was there about the signal. Asked if I set it off.”

Looking away, she sees their reflection watching from the living room windows. Her face is thoughtful when she considers.

“I shot someone. And I didn’t think twice.”

The movement is purely unconscious. Bucky couldn’t stop it if he tried.

“Thank you,” he says, clutching her fingers and pouring every drop of sincerity into his voice, “for not thinking twice.”

“You’re welcome,” she says faintly. Her fingers press against his for the briefest moment, before she drags her hand back to her lap.

*****

_“You ever think about getting rid of that rooster?”_

_“Are you trying to murder my birds?”_

_“No! Oh geez, no.”_

_“How about this - if he’s still alive next time you visit, I’ll make you fried chicken.”_

*****

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she answers, carefully setting fried chicken on a paper towel to cool.

Bucky thinks for a moment and chooses his words carefully. “The last time we met, it was 1969.”

Her shoulders tense, but she nods and avoids his stare. “Yes. It was.”

“You can tell me to fuck off here if you want, but - you don’t look quite old enough for us to know each other then.”

She stays silent, scratching at the edge of the skillet with tongs. He can tell she’s deciding how to answer.

“No. I guess I don’t.” Looking up at him, she sets the utensil in the sink and meets his curious gaze. “I’m – enhanced, I guess. If that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

It makes sense. There must be thousands of enhanced people across the world. So many choose to stay under the radar, uninterested in the circus spectacle that follows anyone who displays even a hint of ability. Bucky thinks of Steve wearing baseball caps all the time, and Wanda dying her hair black and changing her accent, and Bruce avoiding the color green and staying hidden in Tony’s labs all day.

Sometimes being different sucks.

“Got it,” Bucky says. He watches her pick at her chicken and he nudges a little more. “So, you’re enhanced and you…found a good skin cream then?”

She huffs out a laugh.

“That would’ve been nicer. I was born with an ability. It was nothing powerful. Nothing fun,” she says with a trace smile and Bucky feels himself smile in response. “It was passed down in my family. My mother had it, her mother before her. When I was 27, there was an accident. I don’t understand what th – what happened. But here I am.”

Bucky sees the light in her eyes dim, her expression closing off and he desperately wants to keep her talking. He wants to learn more. He wants to learn  _her_.

“Should I assume Hydra was responsible for that accident?” Startled at the comment, she looks up nervously. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I just, when I told you why I was here, you seemed - scared. I know the feeling.”

Swallowing hard, she licks suddenly dry lips. “Yes. They - liked their experiments.”

Bucky gives her a grim smile. “Yeah. They really fuckin’ do, don’t they?” They sit in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, until Bucky’s curiosity gets the best of him. “What’s your ability?”

With those magic words, it ends. Her expression shutters and she retreats into herself.

“I’m sorry. I’m not comfortable talking about it,” she says quietly. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Bucky replies easily, and he means it. He picks the crispy skin from the chicken leg. “I know what it’s like to be different.”

*****

_“You made noodles?”_

_“A long time ago, when we had plenty of flour and butter. They won’t be as good as the ones you had in Italy though.”_

_“Nah, those were fascist noodles. I bet your noodles taste better.”_

_“I would hope so.”_

*****

“The food here is  _fantastic_ ,” Bucky says reverently, piling a second helping of spaghetti on his plate. Maybe he should feel self-conscious at the awkward way he slurps the noodles, but it’s so fucking good he doesn’t care.

She forks the noodles and twirls them into a spoon, grinning at him. Bucky marvels briefly at the effortless gesture.

“Well, I try.”

“You  _succeed_.”

Passing him a basket of bread, she stirs the noodles around her bowl.

“Hey Bucky?

“Hmmm?

“What have you been doing? Since you came back?” she asks tentatively.

There’s a question.

What  _has_  he been doing? Revenge. Rounding up the arrogant fucks who escaped the first Hydra purge following DC. Avenging. Throwing himself back into fighting, trying to rebuild his tarnished reputation with the good deeds he owes. All are viable answers, but he goes with a more personal truth, the one that keeps him up at nights.

“Trying to figure myself out, I guess. Learn how to be part of a team again. How the world works, when you’re allowed to make your own decisions. Sorting through memories, trying to make them useful. All that good stuff.”

She takes a drink of wine and seems to gather her courage. “And are you - I mean  _do you_  – have you been remembering things?”

The question is so hesitant. Bucky wonders wryly if she’s afraid to hurt his feelings, but it doesn’t matter, he can admit when he has no fucking idea what’s going on. Which is most of the time.

“Some,” he says honestly. “Don’t remember anything from before I was captured. Anything I know, it’s stuff Steve’s told me, or stuff I’ve read. Watched a bunch of documentaries about WW2, that was weird, seeing myself on old film reels. No idea why, but I can’t get to  _any_  of those memories, they’re just - obliterated. The ones with Hydra though, they’re reappearing. That’s why I volunteer for jobs like this,” he admits, tearing off a hunk of bread. “Keep thinking if I go back to these places, I can figure out who I was back then.”

“Bucky. Why the hell would you do that to yourself?” she asks sternly. Bucky grins at the tone.

“You sound like Steve. Look, I don’t  _want_  to know what I did back then. All the shit I’ve done to other people…all the shit that’s been done to me. Fuck that. I don’t  _want_  to know, I  _need_  to know. Hard to put yourself back together, when you’re missing huge pieces of the puzzle.”

Bucky looks down at his plate, mopping up spaghetti sauce with his bread. She doesn’t say anything else.

*****

The air is crisp and clean the next night, when Bucky steps outside. Standing on the front porch, he pulls a dark blue knit hat low over his ears and sucks a deep breath, reveling in the freshness that fills his lungs. Mountain sunsets are something incredible to behold and he stops to savor it; the craggy horizon painted brilliant red-orange, deep purple hugging from above, crystal white stars gleaming.

It clears his head in an unexpected way. The scents of snow and pine needles and life. He’d forgotten how reviving life in the wilderness could be. Growing up in Brooklyn, spending most of his life now in Manhattan, he wasn’t exactly an outdoorsy guy. And normally, he hates the snow. Spent far too many years being cold to seek it out, but here? Here, it’s not too bad. The sound of the nearby river bubbling through ice, the smell of wood smoke curling in the air, and – well.

And her.

There’s something strangely calming about her. Her voice, her mannerisms. Her cautious smile. The way she hums while she cooks and how she catches her tongue between her teeth when she’s concentrating. Bucky feels an unusual tug in his belly at the thought. It feeds something he hasn’t really considered since he fought his way back to the land of the living and it’s making him reconsider a few things.

He should probably call Steve tonight. Let him know he’s still knee deep in Kit-Kat mode.

Because right now? Bucky really doesn’t want to leave.

Reaching for the tattered broom leaning by the railing, he sweeps away the couple inches of new snow covering the steps and jumps lightly down. Walking back to her little woodshed, he pops a key into the lock connecting the shed doors and eases the creaking wood open. Rummaging for a few minutes, he piles up a massive armful of logs and carries them back to the bin on her front porch. Three times he makes the trip, arranging the pile carefully, filling it to overflowing, so she won’t need to tramp through the snow to get more.

Maybe tomorrow, he’ll make himself useful and cut more. Manual labor, fresh air. The happy thought makes him giddy.

When he finishes, he flips the lock clasp to bolt it again, but something catches his eye. Peering closer, he finds scratches down the side of the lock. Glinting silver, they look new. Bucky narrows his eyes and glances over his shoulder, into the darkness of the trees beyond.

The world is quiet. Not a breath of wind.

It seems odd, but as she said before – no one ever comes up this way. Likely it’s nothing and she mentioned this lock gave her issues, so maybe it was simply past frustration. Fingering the grooves, he makes a mental note to ask her about it, just in case. Trudging back toward the porch, the scent of pancakes reaches his nose and he leaps eagerly up the first step.

He pulls up short.

It happens then. The brick wall appears.

Bucky feels his brain ricochet from the blow. He wasn’t even searching, but it hits like a hammer, pounding the breath from his lungs and the sound of Steve’s voice fills his head.

_“Nah, it was in France, about a year before. SHIELD never returned your bag after – well. After. Who the hell knows though, maybe it’s lost in the archives somewhere. Anyway, there were all these letters you had in there from your girl, maybe they’re something you want.”_

_“My girl?”_

_“Yeah, you – your girl. Smart. Beautiful. You were, uh…you were just fuckin’ head over heels. She used to write you all these letters, you kept ‘em stuffed in your bag, ‘Dear Jimmy,’ they always started and – ”_

_“Stop.”_

_“Buck – ”_

_“Stop it Steve, I mean it.”_

_“Alright, alright, you said you wanted to know, I’m just telling you - ”_

_“Dammit, just - I don’t wanna remember it. Not right now. Can’t fuckin’ handle hearing about someone else I let down.”_

Somewhere in the forest, a bird whistles. The sound brings him crashing back to the present.

_Dear Jimmy_ , he thinks.

Bucky stops breathing.

*****

There’s an old jazz song on the radio perched above her sink, and she turns the dial up. Tapping her feet to the brassy beat, she moves through the small kitchen, humming. Pancakes, eggs, bacon. Breakfast at supper. For some reason it’s always a treat, no matter how old you are.

She’s mixing batter when she hears the quiet click of the closing door, and she sets the bowl down and turns to look at him with a grin.

“Look, I know you said you don’t like your pancakes burnt, but I think you should just  _try_  – ”

Her voice fades when she sees him. Bucky stands before her, the blue knit cap clenched in his hands. Dark hair sticks in every direction and he pushes it back, trying to coax it smooth, and she sees his fingers tremble. His face is pale and his bright blue eyes watch her closely.

“Bucky? Are you okay?”

He opens his mouth and closes it. Twice. Unable to find the words.

“Are you hurt?” she tries again, wiping her hands on a dish towel and coming forward. “What happened?”

Holding up a hand, he stops her and moves to sit on the edge of an armchair. Chewing his lip for a full minute, he finally finds his voice.

“I have a question. I need you to answer me with the truth.”

“Okay,” she says hesitantly. She moves to the living room and sinks slowly to the chair opposite him. She pinches her lip nervously and Bucky feels his heart spasm. He keeps watching her, willing himself to pull up the correct memories and failing. Finally, he gives up and whispers.

“Am I Jimmy? Were you waiting for me that night?”

Her expression never changes, but he sees her breathe faster, chest rising and falling quickly. The answer is clear. Closing her eyes, she exhales a long breath.

“Yeah. You – yes. Yes. You were, you  _are_  – him. You’re Jimmy.” Opening her eyes, he sees them shiny with tears and when she blinks, they spill over. “I was waiting for you that night.”

Silence stretches longer and longer and Bucky finally realizes his lungs are burning. He lets out his breath with rush and leans forward. Elbows on his knees, he tries with everything in his heart, to remember.

“We’d met? Before then? We knew each other?”

She sits up straight, never breaking eye contact. Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she searches for the right words. Bucky feels his heart thump wildly while he waits; her voice is laced with sadness when she speaks.

“The first time we met was in 1944. I was wearing grey and you were wearing blue.”

*****


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every love story begins somewhere.
> 
> This is the first time I’ve really written 1940s Bucky, so I hope I do him justice. Also I may have a fondness for punching Steve Rogers in the balls, what can I say. Remember those hidden items from Chapter 2? Some of them pop up again!

*****

****_Early January 1944  
Somewhere in France_ ** **

Bucky lays flat on his back, staring at the puffy white clouds floating by. Ears ringing, he breathes in a lungful of wet smoke while he waits.

Calming breaths, they always say. Clear your mind. Focus.

The bullet whizzes through the broken front window and explodes an empty water pitcher, covering him in shards of glass and yeah, that did it.

He’s fucking  _pissed_.

“You piece of shit fucking  _asshole_!” he shouts, flipping angrily onto his stomach and crawling toward another narrow window.

Hours of fighting and here they are, with Bucky stuck in the still smoking bones of a bombed-out apartment, unable to hit the sniper victoriously camped in the bell tower of the village church. Below him, Steve, Gabe, and Dugan are crouched behind the burnt shell of a truck, waiting patiently for him to sort it out.

Well.  _Patiently_  might be a lie.

“Barnes, I’m hungry,” Dugan calls up. “It’s not that hard, just point and fuckin’  _shoot_.”

Hunched now against a broken wall, Bucky grits his teeth while he reloads and calls down an insult.

“Maybe it’s time you tried a god damn diet, shithead. I’m fuckin’  _working_  on it.”

He waits until the next shot comes, a zinger cracking the frame of the window beside him, and then he pops up, fires into the bell tower, and ducks back down.

“Anything?”

The only response, is another bullet, fired through the retaining wall. It blows through siding, pelting him with chunks of wood. One particularly jagged piece smashes into his right hand, slicing it open and drawing a line of blood from thumb to pinky.

“OUCH! Fucking  _ouch_! God damn chickenshit motherfucking cocksucker,  _fuck you_ ,” he yells furiously, briefly contemplating how many bars of soap his Ma would shove in his mouth if she heard his language. Switching the gun grip to an equally proficient left hand, he peers through the new hole in the wall, searching.

_There_.

An eagle-eyed gaze catches it, a momentary flash of skin through a chink in the stone tower. Holding his breath, Bucky finds his shot and fires.

Even from here, he knows it lands. There’s a moment of suspension, before a body collapses forward, catching on the wide window ledge and flipping out. Whistling through the air, it lands with a sickening crunch on the bricks. Down below, the men grimace.

Smiling grimly, Bucky climbs to his feet and leans against the busted window frame, lifting his helmet to mop up the rivers of steaming, muddy sweat streaming down his face.

Christ, this helmet smells like  _shit_.

Slinging his rifle around his shoulder, he looks down to where the guys are still crouched. He points down at Dugan and holds up a middle finger.

“You owe me a smoke. Jackass.”

*****

Liberation creates a carnival atmosphere in the little French village.

Back on the ground, Bucky wanders through the crowds, accepting handshakes, slaps on the back, the occasional fervent kiss on the cheek. The flurry of excitement is tempered by a few harsh injuries, those who suffered before Captain America and his Howling Commandos arrived this morning.

_Howling Commandos_. Jesus H Christ, the PR war machine was sheer insanity, Bucky thinks contemptuously.  _Here comes Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s right-hand man! He makes the shot! He saves the day!_

If he has to see one more of those idiotic comics, he’ll fucking scream.

With a dirty towel wrapped around his still bleeding hand, he stalks the injury line, searching for Jim Morita, because he  _just_   _fucking cannot_  sew it himself. Last time he tried, he puked up beans on his own boots and Dugan laughed at him for three days and he’s not doing that shit again.

“Jim, can I get some help?” Bucky finds Morita setting a broken leg and drops to his haunches, unfolding the towel. Morita takes one look at it and shakes his head.

“No time. Sew it yourself or wait.”

“Well I ain’t god damn doing it. I’ll fuckin’ wait,” Bucky growls irritably. Stomping off with a huff, he plops on a bench and pulls the make-shift bandage tighter, wincing at the sting.

He finally has a few moments to himself, so he sits and hangs his head. Closes his eyes and relives that final shot. His stomach churns at the memory and he takes those deep breaths now, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Like so many times before, today was no different.

Down to the wire, all on the line. Here comes Bucky Barnes. He makes the shot. He saves the day.

That fucker deserved to get his brain splattered, but sometimes…Jesus. Sometimes he gets tired of doing the dirty work like this.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely notices when clunky leather boots stop in front of him.

Annoyed with the intrusion, Bucky looks up to find a woman looking down at him. She’s dressed in grey, dark trousers rolled up at the ankles, a light grey men’s shirt that looks two sizes too big, and a tattered leather belt. A moss green coat drapes her frame, falling to her knees and she has a black scarf tied around her head. Dropping a pail of fresh water next to him, she kneels in the dust at his feet.

Without a word, she takes his wounded hand and gently unwraps the dirty rag. Digging in her pocket, she pulls a clean cloth free, dunks it in the water, and carefully cleans the cut. Once the blood and grime are washed away, she pats it dry and motions for him to hold the cloth in place. Producing a sewing kit from her other coat pocket, she finds a clean needle and unwinds a length of blue thread.

Bucky’s so captivated by her efficiency, so mesmerized by the way she catches her tongue between her teeth, that he barely feels when she starts to stitch the skin together. Struck dumb, he gapes at her and let’s himself be manhandled. Glancing up, she offers a quick smile, before going back to her task.

It all happens in a matter of moments, but to Bucky?

A lifetime passes.

Nimble fingers make neat little stitches, and far too quickly, she’s releasing his hand. He swallows several times before he can finally make a sound. When he speaks, charm oozes from every pore, because he’s James Buchanan  _Barnes,_ for fuck’s sake. Shooting Nazis and hunting Hydra and talking to women are what he does best.

According to him, at least. Summoning his confidence, he pours it on.

In French.

“Bonjour,” he says smoothly and gives her the adorable smile he reserves for beautiful women and his Ma, when she’s really, really pissed. “Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en france qui ne m'aiment pas.”

Standing a few feet away, Steve Rogers makes a strangled noise and drops his face in his hands.

“Je m’appelle  _Sergeant_  James Barnes,” Bucky continues confidently. “Quel est votre nom?”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve sidles up behind him, hissing under his breath. “You fuckin’ moron, you just said you’re getting lucky tonight and the women in France don’t like you.”

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky hisses back. “I said I’m lucky, because she’s the most beautiful woman in France. I know how to speak fuckin’  _French_ , Rogers.”

“Actually, he’s right,” she says. Clearly and in perfect English. “You need to make sure you keep that clean, Sergeant. I have fresh bandages if you need more.”

Bucky’s jaw drops.

Beside him, Steve, now officially his former best friend, starts laughing. Clapping Bucky on the shoulder, he gives the woman a grin.

“Sorry mam, we’re still working on his French. Great with a gun, always makes the shot, but you know – bit of an idiot sometimes.”

Swinging a blind fist behind him, Bucky punches Steve as hard as he can, which happily lands right in the balls. Steve backs away wheezing and Bucky smiles serenely up at her.

“Ignore him,” he says conspiratorially. “He drinks.”

Bucky feels his heart bounce wildly when she laughs. It sounds like  _music_. He preens under her indulgent grin, before she moves along to help someone new.

On that cold January afternoon, covered in sticky blood and dirty sweat, and stumbling through terrible broken French, Bucky Barnes falls head over heels in love.

*****

Later that night, with their camp set up on the edge of town, the Howlies collapse. Plates of supper are passed around, followed by swigs from a beat-up silver flask; slowly and with certainty, the circle of men drifts from snarky, ribald jokes, into deep, dreamless sleep.

All except for two men.

Flicking the lid of his lighter, Bucky fingers the rusty coils. The night sky arcs like black silk above him and he thinks. About war. About death. About  _life_ and whatever the hell he’s gonna do when this thing ends, if he makes it out alive.

Somehow, that last thought leads him back to the woman he met earlier. Pretty smile, pretty eyes, pretty stitching. Pretty far out of his league. Can’t hurt to dream, though.

Lighting up the smoke he stole from Dugan’s pack, Bucky takes a long drag. He makes it halfway through, before restlessly tossing it into the low embers of the campfire. He climbs to his feet.

“I need a walk. You fuckers snore so loud, I don’t know how all’ve Hydra hasn’t found us.”

Keeping his eyes trained in the pitch-black night, Steve waves him away.

*****

White moonlight shines down into the clearing and she drops a basket of bloody, grimy cloth next to the creek. Singing under her breath, she dunks the cloth in the freezing water them and starts scrubbing. In the light of the moon, the rusty red blood turns black and for a moment, she can believe it’s nothing more than dirt. Dark stains bleed away in the lazy flow of water and life begins to feel clean again.

A small blessing, after a day of bloodshed. As she works, the words to her favorite song drift in and out, peppering the tune.

“We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…but I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day…”

The quiet snap of a tree branch, of a footstep in the grass, abruptly shatters the night.

Heart in her throat, she draws a knife from her belt and leaps to her feet. Wide-eyed, she whirls to find the dark-haired man with the brilliant blue eyes from earlier – Sergeant Barnes, he said.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes softly, raising both hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to bother you, I was just – I was walking and I thought I heard someone.”

She considers him for a moment. He’s taller than she thought. All lean muscle, moving with a slow grace that puts her at ease. A shadow beard covers his face, creeping down his neck, and his short hair looks smooth as black satin in the colorless night. He gives her a crooked smile and she lowers the knife, tucking it back at her belt.

“How is your hand?” she asks, her voice floating through the small clearing. Bucky glances down at the white bandage and flexes his fingers.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he says with a grin. “Thank you. For earlier. Although you did such a good job, probably won’t even scar. How’m I supposed to brag about my war wounds if you fix ‘em up so nice?”

Her lips curve up. “Something tells me you’ll find  _plenty_  more opportunities for trouble, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky. Please, call me Bucky,” he ducks his head bashfully when he offers the nickname. Ambling toward her, he points to a smooth rock close by. “Is it okay if I sit?”

In the space of a moment, his voice has gone soft and shy and she wonders how a man who seems so confident, can demonstrate such a sweet vulnerability. It charms her far more than the swagger she saw earlier today.

“Only if you promise to help,” she finds herself saying and he perks up.

“Anything you need,” he offers, folding his knees under as he plops down.

She hands him the edge of a sheet with the instruction to hold tight. Bucky grips the fabric in his left fist while she twists it tighter and tighter, wringing every last drop of water from the cloth. When it’s semi-dry, she hands him another, and another one after, until her basket is full.

They work in companionable silence. She glances up now and then, to find him watching her. Each time she meets his gaze, he gives her a slow smile.

As the last piece of cloth is dropped in her basket, she wipes her hands on the trousers and rubs sleepy eyes. Bucky jumps to his feet and reaches down, offering her a hand up. When she folds her cold fingers against his hot skin, the spark of electricity rockets down her back and explodes in her toes.

_Oh_.

Swaying slightly, she releases his hand quickly and steps back. Opting for distance between them, she picks up her basket and holds it in front, a useless barrier from the strange feelings his touch awoke. Her brain urges her to bid him goodbye, to walk away and not look back.

Her heart though. It has another plan.

“Would it be okay – could I walk you home?”

Part of her wants to say no. Beginning anything with a Soldier, it won’t end well. She’s been down this road before. She doesn’t think she can survive it again.

But the nervous hope she finds in those blue eyes stirs her soul, and she says something unexpected.

“That would be nice, thank you.”

Bucky insists on carrying the laundry basket and they move slowly through the trees. The walk is oddly comfortable, filled with shy glances and an occasional brush of shoulders that makes her belly swoop. Guiding him along the edge of the town, all too soon they arrive at her little cottage sitting at the dead end of a narrow street. She takes the basket from his arms and balances it on her hip.

Quiet words warm the cold air around them, both prolonging the goodbye neither wants to give. It’s the ferocious barking of a dog down the street that finally makes her jump.

“I should get inside,” she says reluctantly and Bucky nods, looking down to watch his boot drawing a circle in the dirt. “But, now that you know where to find me, maybe you’ll come by sometime? Let me take a look at that hand?”

When he looks up, his smile takes her breath away.

“I absolutely will.”

“Goodnight Bucky.”

“Goodnight darlin’. Sleep well.”

*****

Two days later, a tentative knock sounds on her front door. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she opens it to find a soldier on her doorstep.

“Good morning,” Bucky says hesitantly, brandishing a bundle of holly. “Hope I’m not bothering you. I, um – I was hoping, maybe you could have a look at my hand?”

“Come in,” she beckons and Bucky steps inside, the smell of wintery air clinging to him. In the confines of her small home, he seems larger than life, this quiet American.

She collects a chipped white pitcher from her closet and fills it with water, arranging the holly and setting it on her kitchen table. Suddenly, she’s overwhelmed by color – red berries and green leaves, blue eyes and brown hair.

He lays his hand on the table and she unwraps the bandage. Beneath the strips of white, she finds something peculiar - after only two days, the wound looks several weeks old. Staring for a long moment, she finally looks up in confusion.

“That’s impressive.”

“I – yeah, I heal pretty quickly. Good genes, I guess,” he stutters. For some reason, she hears a twinge of panic in his voice.

“Well that’s great,” she says with a smile, her thumb brushing the thrumming pulse at his wrist.

“Yeah. I guess,” he mutters to himself.

With quick snips, she removes the stitches and dabs a bit of Vaseline along the line of puckered skin before wrapping it up again. Over and done then, there’s no real reason for him to stay longer, but – she doesn’t want him to leave just yet.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she offers. “It’s more hot water than coffee these days, but I have a bit left if you would like?”

Eyes brightening, Bucky happily accepts.

*****

“So, you’re not from here,” he guesses, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug. “Your English is perfect. Better than most’ve the soldiers I know.”

She appears to choose her words carefully.

“No. My mother was French, my father was German, but I lost them both when I was young. After that, I found myself in London. I learned there.” She runs her finger along the rim of her cup, not looking up.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Without thinking, he reaches across the table to touch her hand, but pulls back at the last moment.

She thinks to herself, she wouldn’t have minded. She clears her throat and tries to smile.

“Tell me about you. About America,” she encourages. “I’ve never been, but always wanted to visit. What was Bucky Barnes like growing up in Brooklyn?”

Bucky leans back in the chair and crosses his ankles with a coy smile.

“Full of trouble, if you ask my Ma. But let’s just say all my  _worst_  decisions came from growing up with Steve Rogers.”

The late morning bleeds into early afternoon as they sit and talk. Conversation flows easily, punctuated with lazy grins and surprised laughter, and in her sunny kitchen, she feels a lethargic sense of peace. Something she hasn’t felt in years. Since before they came, before her world ended. Since that November night in Berlin.

All too soon, the shadows are stretching across his face and the battered living room clock strikes the late hour. Both of them start at the sound, before realizing how long they’ve been sitting together.

“Dammit,” Bucky mutters regretfully. “I better go, I’m on watch tonight.”

“Okay,” she says, disappointment in her voice. He reaches across the table again and this time, his fingers catch hers. He squeezes.

“Thanks for helping me today. Your bedside manner’s a helluva lot better than Morita. He usually just tells me to quit whining,” he gives an exaggerated eye roll as he rises from his chair and she laughs once more..

God. In one afternoon with him, she’s laughed more than in the past year.

It’s addictive.

Bounding down her back steps, Bucky heads toward their camp and she leans against the doorframe, watching. No more than a hundred yards gone, he spins around to see her one more time. Giving her a jaunty salute, he turns and takes off running.

It happens right there.

Shivering as the fresh air whips around her, she watches the silhouette of a soldier running toward the coming darkness. Slow as syrup dripping down her skin, the feeling sticks.

On that cold January day, wrapped in warm laughter and drowning in the blue of his eyes, she falls head over heels in love with Sergeant James Barnes.

*****

One of the small comforts in wartime, is consistency.

Each Sunday, the town still gathers in the small church to give thanks, an attempt for normalcy amid the increasingly bleak news arriving from the front. Here, everyone is welcome. Religion, race, nationality, none of it matters. She loves this progressive little village, where differences are celebrated, never shunned.

This sunny morning, she’s late. Hurrying down the aisle as the buzz of voices begin to settle, she finds a seat near the front and slides inside. Pulling off her gloves, she glances around the morning crowd.

Her heart jumps when she sees them.

Side by side, the two broad-shouldered men sit in the pew across from her. Both have carefully combed hair, one dressed in a brown leather jacket, the other in dark blue. As the Priest begins the opening prayer, Bucky meets her eyes and gives her a grin.

She turns away quickly, her jumping heart now racing.

One prayer rolls into another and then another after that. Occasionally peeking over, she finds the same scene each time. Captain Rogers kneels in the pew, head bowed, eyes closed, while Bucky – he doesn’t even try to fake it. His eyes are always fixed on her and when he catches her looking, he wrinkles his nose and makes a silly face and she looks away, fighting the urge to smile.

An hour slips by and as the service nears its conclusion, there’s a moment of contemplative silence. In the pious stillness, she hears a muffled thump. Looking over, she sees Steve glaring daggers at Bucky, who’s now rubbing his arm and glaring right back. Both men glance her way and when Steve catches her eye, a bright red flush blooms across his cheeks.

And Bucky?

He  _winks_.

When the service ends, the low hum of voices picks up, people greeting each other, exchanging news. Pulling her gloves back over perpetually frozen fingers, she steps quickly into the aisle. Head bowed, she walks along, feeling a heated gaze following her. Unable to help herself, she peeps behind her one last time, and Bucky gives her a brilliant smile.

Everything about him is so big and bright and full of  _life._ Her answering smile is so natural, it shocks her.

She steps into the fresh sunshine and she  _knows_  she should hurry home, she really does.

But instead, she lingers.

He catches her there, a light touch at her elbow. When she turns, the sun makes a halo behind him. Clear eyes meet hers, and she sees his face shaved smooth, his hair still damp and slicked back. There’s something almost angelic about him, this man she first discovered covered in the bloody aftermath of battle.

She thinks she’s never in her life seen someone so beautiful.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks hopefully, that edge of shyness creeping into his voice. When she nods mutely, he offers his arm and she wraps leather fingers around the folds of thick blue.

Their walk home is slow, meandering. People hurry by, saying hello and hiding their smiles at the sight of the handsome soldier so clearly smitten.

When they arrive at her front door, she throws caution to the wind and takes the plunge. Cupping Bucky’s face in her hands, she brushes her thumbs over his clean-shaven skin and presses her lips to his. He’s stunned at first, the pressure taking him by surprise, but then he responds with wild enthusiasm, lifting her up and spinning her in a crazy circle.

They’re both laughing, trading the sounds of happiness between them. Bucky keeps kissing her, his arms locked around her like he can never have enough and the taste of his first sweet kiss sears itself right into her heart.

*****

Life falls into a familiar pattern.

Bucky comes by every day. Once with a handful of sharp scented pine boughs, so fragrant they fill her entire home. Once more, to give her the bundle of colorful postcards he’d collected from his travels through Europe; cheeks flushing pink, he added a hand-painted card of Brooklyn Steve had drawn him, with two curvy hearts he added on the back. And then once again, with a handful of smooth, silvery blue pebbles he found in the riverbed. Little trinkets, small things to make her smile and –

To remember him. When the war drags him away again.

Every day he leaves her with a kiss, at first light and chaste, then harder and bolder, hot touches that burn. She knows she plays a dangerous game, balancing her heart on the blade of his knife, but she can’t find the motivation to stop.

And every day she waits for the axe to swing. For his orders to come, whatever new mission will march him away, back to whatever hell awaits. Every day she holds her breath, releasing it only as the sun sets, thankful the fragile world they’ve created lives to see another sunrise.

But one week turns into two, and that turns into three, while the Howlies wait for instructions. As the days pass, the men grow impatient, desperate to move along and tackle their next fight – all except Bucky. The longer he stays, the more he settles in the rhythm of life with her.

Steve is bemused, when he mentions it to her one night.

“I’m glad you found him that day, he’s had a – it’s been a hard war. For Bucky especially,” Steve looks into the distance, unfocused for a time as he sips a glass of watered-down whiskey. When he looks back to her, his eyes are serious. “I’ve never seen him this happy, so thank you. For keeping him together.”

Two days later, the inevitable message arrives.

The team sits in the town’s little pub, a cozy wooden building housing an out of tune piano and an old man who saws away on his accordion every night. Bucky leaps to his feet when she appears in the door and the men cough, hiding their laughter.

She greets them all, but her eyes are for one man alone.

“Will you walk with me?” he asks quietly, tangling his fingers with hers and tugging her into the cold night. They stop just outside the pub and he stares down at boots. Disappointment rolls off him in waves and she doesn’t want to ask; she knows what’s coming. Putting a cold finger under his chin, she tips his face up.

“Bucky?”

“We’re heading out at dawn,” he mumbles miserably, his shoulders slumping.

“Oh,” she says. Because that’s it. There’s nothing more she can say.

He puts his arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his never-ending warmth and she goes gladly, wrapping her arm around his waist. They begin to walk, making it behind the pub, before he leans to kiss her, and she catches him close. Walking her quickly backward, she bumps into the wall and his mouth is like fire as it trails down her neck, the tip of his nose ice cold as it follows.

Breathing hard, she holds him tight, pressing her body against him and Bucky groans quietly against her throat. Her mind racing, she steels her nerves to make a request.

“Come home with me. Stay with me tonight. Please,” she whispers.

He pulls back, surprise and desire playing over his face.

“Are you sure? I’m not expecting anything, you don’t have to – ”

“Stop,” she says, holding her fingers to his lips to shush him. “I’m sure. It’s been a long time for me, since I’ve been with anyone, but if you want – ”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “ _God_ , yes. Since the first day we met – you’re the only thing I’ve wanted.”

Like shadows they move through the dark streets, until they reach her home. There’s no hesitation as she unlocks the door and pulls him inside. Hands clasped together, she leads him upstairs and the sound of his heavy boots following her makes her stomach flutter.

Opening her bedroom door, she steps inside and Bucky pauses, surveying it all. Green quilts on her bed, a small stone fireplace in the corner, a cracked mirror and a dressing table by the window. Photographs in simple frames, a small jewelry box and a silver brush. A little dish by her bed holding the handful of pebbles he brought her. Little fragments of her spread through the room, and he drinks it up greedily, memorizing everything.

He closes the door behind him, still watching her carefully, as though he genuinely can’t believe his good luck. Without a word, he sheds the thick blue coat and unlaces his boots, kicking them away.

“Come here,” she murmurs, reaching for him.

He stands before her in the low firelight and she runs her hands up under his long-sleeve wool shirt, urging him to remove it. When he yanks it over his head and tosses it aside, her mouth goes dry at the sight. Cool, curious hands trace the hard planes of his body, through the dark hair on his chest, feeling the silver dog tags hanging from his throat, the pads of her fingers brushing over the wealth of scars scattered across his body. He sucks in his breath when her hands reach his trousers, but then she’s unhooking the buttons and pushing them down his legs and Bucky chokes back a stuttered groan.

Pushing him lightly, he drops to her bed and looks up with wide eyes. She slips her shoes off, stepping between his knees and she watches his hands clench tight, waiting. Her fingers fumble just a bit with the buttons at the top of her dress, and as each one pops free, his breath comes faster. At her waist, she shrugs her shoulders and the dress slides off, pooling at her feet.

Bucky blinks rapidly, stunned at the sight.

Reaching for his hands, she grips them tight and places them on her hips. Through the filmy white fabric of her underwear, the heat from his skin burns hot and she steps into that safe space, craving the warmth. Bucky tugs her forward, wraps his arms tight around her waist and buries his face into the softness of her belly. His breath huffs against her, and she combs her fingers through his hair, the nervousness slowly ebbing from his body.

When he finally looks up, the lust in his face nearly brings her to her knees.

Rough fingers catch in the band of her underwear and he drags it down, holding his breath until the reveal. She unclips her bra and lets it fall away, and he closes his eyes briefly at the sight, of her naked and open for him.

He wants to  _devour_  her.

Gripping her bottom firmly, he lifts her up and settles her legs on either side of him. The only barrier between them is the thin fabric of his cotton boxers and she utters a low moan when she grinds herself against him. That simple sound, her unexpected reaction to  _feeling_  him, nearly sets him off.

“Look at you,” he whispers hoarsely. “ _God_ , darlin’ I’ve been dreamin’ every night about this.”

Twisting quickly, he shoves her back into the quilts, covering her body and slanting his mouth hungrily over hers. She twines her arms around his neck, hips pushing against him.

Full body shudders rattle through her when he moves down her body, lips finding her breasts, teeth tugging gently at her nipples. Digging her fingers into his hair, she arches up and he slides an arm beneath her, keeping her body bent into the heat of this mouth. Bottomless black eyes lift to watch, and he sucks harder, relishing her breathless reactions.

If she let him, he’d stay there for days, teasing and tasting and touching, but she tugs at his hair, begging for his lips again, and he crawls back up her body. Shaking hands bracket her face and she feels him, hard and heavy, between her legs.

“You’re okay? You’re sure?” he murmurs in her ear and her heart nearly bursts at the concern in his voice.

“I’m sure,” she breathes.

At her promise, Bucky wraps a shaking hand around himself and shifts his body. With one smooth move, he buries himself inside her and the stretch, the thick  _feel_  of him, it punches the breath from her lungs. When his hips are flush against her, he stops, resting his head on her chest while he squeezes his eyes shut.

When he looks up, the raw emotion in his face is a stark reminder of what this means. For both of them.

She never knew.

Never understood it could be like this. That it could feel this way. Her heart hammers furiously against her ribs, so hard she marvels that it doesn’t crack her bones and fly away.

Bucky pulls her leg up, hooking it around his waist, and his hips begin a slow roll. Staring into her eyes, he pushes into her, again and again, the drag of his cock catching unknown nerve endings, sending pleasure rippling through her. Minutes drift by, time meaningless as they move together. She locks her fingers behind his neck, her back arching with each thrust and he’s lost in the uniqueness of her, the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, every mark on her skin.

And when he looks down between their bodies, to where he can see himself pushing into her, he nearly comes at the sight.

“Can you come for me darlin’?” he rasps, his hips unconsciously snapping faster. “Can I help you?”

She releases her grip on his neck, one hand sliding to hold his sweat-slicked bicep, the other reaching between them to touch herself. “Kiss me,” she urges, and he complies, slipping his tongue between her parted lips. He can feel her fingers rubbing between her legs, pausing now and then to touch  _him_ , to feel the way he thrusts into her and he groans into her mouth.

Fighting himself harder than he’s ever done before, he tries to keep from coming, desperate for her to beat him to the finish. Broken little noises leave her throat as he drives himself into her, faster and harder, his rough thrusts lighting sparks beneath her skin, until she suddenly clutches him close. Bucky feels her body spasm around him, squeezing him so fucking  _tight_  while the tremors wrack her body, and he swallows down her breathless cries.

“That’s it darlin’, that’s it, there you go,” he pants against her lips, grinding himself into her until he follows right behind, coming with a soft grunt.

Chest heaving, Bucky strokes his fingers down her sides, reveling in the silky feel of her damp skin. When he can catch his breath, he rolls onto his back, keeping her tucked against his chest. She clings to him, refusing to let go.

Pressing trembling lips against the sheen of sweat on her forehead, he pulls the blankets over them and locked together, they fall asleep.

*****

The barest hint of morning light illuminates the eastern horizon when Bucky eases from the bed, tucking the blanket around her to keep the cold draft away. Regret already licks up his spine at the thought of walking away, of leaving behind the precious world he’s found here with her.

He buttons his trousers, laces his boots, slips on his coat. Quickly, quietly, efficiently, like a good soldier does. He adds more kindling to the red embers of the dormant fire, coaxing it to flare again, knowing if he can’t be here to keep her warm, something else will have to do.

Minutes rush too quickly now, and as thin fingers of morning light inch across the land, Bucky knows his time is up.

Falling to his knees beside the bed, he rests his chin on the mattress and brushes gentle fingers down her cheek. Her eyes are still closed, but he knows she’s awake. Lips curve up at his touch and Bucky leans in, pressing his lips lightly to hers. Reaching from under the covers to wrap her fingers around the back of his neck, she keeps him close. She deepens the kiss and Bucky sinks into it, his mouth moving eagerly against hers. The heat builds, until he pulls away with a reluctant sigh.

Opening her eyes, she finds him nose to nose with her.

His black eyelashes are so long, she wonders how he ever sees through his scope.

“I love you.”

She sucks in a shocked breath at his declaration. But he’s so perfectly composed. Content with the words he’s offering, ones she never expected. After everything she’s been through, everything she’s done, she never believed she could have something like this.

“Bucky – “

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts. “I don’t expect anything. I just wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know.”

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe it’s not possible to feel this way already. Maybe sweet words will crumble to dust in the harsh light of day.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But here’s the thing. The world is at war and Death walks in his shadow, stalking him with her sharp bullets and shaper blades, and God knows what the future will bring.

She only knows she wants one. She wants this. She wants _him_.

“I love you too, Bucky,” she whispers, and the words feel  _right_. Her fingers rub the short hairs curling at his neck and Bucky melts into her touch. “Don’t go. The world can wait, can’t it? I want you to stay.”

“I  _want_  to stay. More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he whispers back, nuzzling into her neck. She turns to brush her lips against his beard and she feels him swallow hard. “I’ll write you. Often as I can. We gotta use code names out there, so don’t be surprised when you get letters from some strange guy named Jimmy.”

“Jimmy. I like it,” she says with a sleepy smile.

His grin mirrors hers and he kisses the tip of her nose. When he speaks again, a hint of desperation bleeds from the sweet drawl.

“Wait for me darlin’, okay? Will you? I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

“I will,” she says softly. “I’ll always wait.”

Just like that, he offers his whole heart and she gives hers freely in return. Both know their world is dark and unforgiving, and this war could make liars of them both, but neither cares. To find love in this bleak life is a rare opportunity and the temptation is too strong.

Bucky kisses her one last time and rises to his feet. She watches him pause at her bedroom door to give one more crooked smile, and then the door is clicking shut and he’s gone. Alone again, she curls into a ball under the heavy blankets.

_It’s hell_ , she thinks _, to love a soldier_.

Burying her face in the faded green pillow, her heartbroken tears fall fast and thick, soaking silently into soft, threadbare cotton.

*****


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s reaction to the story takes her by surprise, a poor old truck gets hot-wired, and Bucky uses an ax because if Steve can do it so can he. Here’s what happens after the reveal. After this chapter, things take a turn for the angsty (shocking I know), so please bathe in the fluff while it’s here.

**_MISSION REPORT_ **

_LAST MISSION PARAMETERS RECALLED AND RE-ACTIVATED. APPROPRIATE TOOLS COMMANDEERED TO ADDRESS ISSUES AND SECURE ADDITIONAL SUPPORT. SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT WILL BE UNDERTAKEN BEFORE PROCEEDING WITH FINAL PLAN._

_He fingers the blunt edge of the tool. Scratches his temple with it and closes his eyes._

_His whole body is shaking._

_His whole body is sweating._

_Now he digs that blunt metal into his temple until the skin splits. A thin line of blood follows the path of his jawline, dripping into his lap._

 

*****

 

Is it really any different than the morning he left? Orange flames dance in the fireplace, a comforting tune. The fire is soothing, but the silence is the opposite – thick, heavy, and colored with confusion.

Bucky sits in the armchair. Elbows propped up, one metal, one human, both digging painfully into his thighs, he keeps his face buried in his hands. There’s a dull throbbing in his head and for the first time he can remember, he has a fucking  _headache_. The door in his head, the one that opens into the past when the memories come calling, is still shut tight. He can feel them behind it, pounding like a battering ram to break free, but nothing happens.

The door stays closed, the past stays hidden.

And he stays perfectly still.

The leather of her chair creaks as she rises to her feet, walking to the bookcase without a word. Dropping his hands, Bucky watches her select a fat novel from the bottom shelf. When she turns to face him, he sees her open it to reveal a hollow space - inside lies yet another small lockbox. Scrolling through the dial, she selects a series of numbers and it clicks open. Pulling free a thick packet of paper, she sets it gingerly on the coffee table and steps back to wait.

In front of him lies a pile of envelopes, cracked and yellowed with age. Raising wary eyes, he finds her watching at him, her posture rigid.

“I just threw everything at you. I’m sorry, Bucky. I don’t know what I thought would happen, maybe I should have told you in the beginning, but the last time we met you didn’t know, so I wasn’t sure at first and then I didn’t know how to  _say_  it and then time passed and it was so – it was  _nice_  to have you here and I didn’t want to freak you out and I know life is completely different now, neither of us are who we were during the war, you don’t – ” she breaks off, aware she’s rambling.

Shaking her head, she just stops. Stares beseechingly at him, waiting.

There’s his cue, the one telling him to speak.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. He closes it, staring at her. Then he tries again – but his voice is gone. Shaking his head, he looks back at the letters.

“Okay,” she whispers, and he hears a catch in her breath. “Okay. I don’t – expect anything. You don’t have to respond. I can just – give you some space.”

She walks to the front door of the cabin and gathers her coat from the rough wooden peg. Hand on the doorknob, she looks back once more to find him hunched immobile on the couch, staring at the pile of paper, and her shoulders fall.

Cold air breezes through the door and then it snicks shut. Like always, Bucky is left with nothing but the echoing silence of his thoughts.

Long moments pass before he reaches for the letters. A thin, dirty white string binds them together and it takes several tugs to release. The paper crackles warningly under his fingers, a result of old age and frequent readings, and he handles them gently. Selecting an envelope from the top, he opens it carefully, unfolding a delicate sheet of paper.

It’s like an electric shock, when he sees the writing.

Faded letters spill across the page, narrow words in a firm backhand slant that Bucky recognizes. So many things about him have changed over the years, but his handwriting was never one of them. Through the decades it’s remained the same, unalterable as the blue of his eyes and that small bit of constancy was a weird blessing to his fractured sanity.

One sweep of the letters and there’s no doubt in his mind. They’re from him. That fact is irrefutable.

His eyes scan down the page, picking out snippets of text. Occasional words and phrases are redacted, inked over in swipes of black where the US Army got exasperated hands on his stories, but most of it is there.

And there, in the warm little cabin, the truth of her memories shines like a beacon in the darkness of his past.

 

> _February 27, 1944_
> 
> _…so damn cold up here. I had ice in places I’d rather not say._
> 
> _I swear to god, there’s nothing I’d like more right now than to be back in your arms. Can’t stop thinking about our last night – the boys are giving me hell every day, telling me to stop mooning around, but you make it real damn hard to think of anything else._
> 
> _Sure as hell won’t say it in front of those idiots, but I got to thinking the other night and I don’t know what it is you bring out in me, but I figure you’ll indulge me getting all sappy for a minute. That morning we headed out, I left something pretty damn important behind - so I’m asking you to hold real tight to my heart darlin. You stole it fair and square that day we met, and I know there ain’t a safer place in the world than in your hands._
> 
> _Stay warm and stay safe._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Jimmy_

> _May 2, 1944_
> 
> _…and I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed so hard! We’d set up a row of bottles we found and were throwing Delilah around, trying to knock them off and G got a little cocky. Tried to throw it behind his back and it ricocheted off a god damn tree, hit him in the knees and knocked his legs out. He fell face first, got a mouthful of mud and I swear to god, we laughed for an hour. Every time I thought we were done, G got this look on his face, acting all high and mighty, and it set us off again. He recovered just fine, but his knees were bruised all black and purple. It’s good for him though, keeps him humble._
> 
> _G says hello, by the way, and hopes you’re doing well._
> 
> _And now the rest of them are hanging over my shoulder and asking if they can all come over someday and you can make them that potato soup you made for me, and I’m sorry, I promise I’ll find new friends when this damn war is over…_
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Jimmy_

> _July 23, 1944_
> 
> _You know, the first thing I want to do when I get home, is go to one of those drive-in movie theaters. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, they’re new in America, but it’s a real basic idea - there’s a big screen and you drive into a parking lot and watch a movie from the car. It sounds weird, but I went once and it was great. And good lord, the teenagers love it. They pretend to watch a movie and spend the entire time getting all frisky, and no one’s the wiser._
> 
> _So, here’s what I’m thinking._
> 
> _You. Me. A big box of popcorn and a couple bottles of Pepsi. It’s dark outside and once the movie starts, no one will pay us any attention. Maybe we watch the movie, or even better - maybe we don’t. I can’t think of anything I’d love more, than spending two straight hours kissing you. You’re already an addiction for me darlin, but add a little salt to your lips, and I don’t think you’ll ever get rid of me. We could steam up the windows, give those kids a run for their money. I can’t wait to show you._
> 
> _You’re going to love it, I promise._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Jimmy_

> _September 18, 1944_
> 
> _Morning Darlin,_
> 
> _I’m on watch and it’s early, suns not even up yet. Should be paying attention and I am (I swear!), but the stars are so damn bright and like everything beautiful in this world, they make me think of you. You know, I never understood how many stars there were until I got to Europe. Never saw much of anything growing up, the city lights were too much. Now though, I sit here, and there’s this – infinity, I guess – staring back at me and it makes me feel small. Like I’m this tiny thing in the universe and why the hell would the universe care about one more soldier with a busted conscience and too many kills to his name._
> 
> _Don’t get me wrong. It’s okay, in the grand scheme of the world. I don’t need to be famous or remembered or anything. I’m okay being one of many, because there’s a big damn difference between me and every other schmuck out here sweating and humping through the mud._
> 
> _That big difference is you. This thing we have, it keeps me going. Every damn day._
> 
> _Your last letter came just when I needed it. Been real hard out here lately. More than it’s ever been. How the hell’s this thing not over? How’d the world get here? I don’t understand it. Never will. All I know, is that I’m so damn ready to hang up my gun and put this all behind me. No more killing, no more tramping through the rain and camping in the snow. No more sleeping with a gun in one hand a knife in the other. I know it does no good to complain and I don’t want to put it on you. Guess I’m just tired._
> 
> _But you know, I’ve been thinking about the future lately. What life will mean when this thing ends, how we all move on. What happens next. Sometimes I can’t see much past the next mission, but god willing, I’ll see you soon. There’s something important I want to ask you and I need to see your face when I do._
> 
> _Wish I was there with you._
> 
> _All my love,_
> 
> _Jimmy_

 

Bucky reads through 12 different letters. When he finishes, he starts back at the beginning and reads them all again.

These words, these promises - they turn him inside out.

On the surface, perhaps some of the words make no sense, but wartime correspondence is unique - no names, no locations, nothing permitted that could be an identifier if letters were intercepted by the enemy. So maybe Bucky doesn’t remember writing these specific letters, but history and common sense tell him enough.

Which is why certain things buried in those simple words are so important – they trigger the patchy album of memories Steve’s given back to him, and it all begins to make sense.

Particularly those names.

Delilah. During the war, it’s what the Howlies called Steve’s shield. Steve got all red and flustered when he grudgingly reminded Bucky, saying Dugan liked to joke it needed a pretty, fancy name, because  _‘oh gee whiz boys, Captain Rogers is so pretty and fancy.’_  Bucky still calls it that now and then, a muscle memory screech that bursts unconsciously forth when he’s diving to the ground, trying to avoid a vibranium concussion as Steve flings it around the room.

G. That must be Steve. It makes sense in the context. His middle name was  _Grant_ , and very few people would have known. It wasn’t released to the public until after his plane went down, so it would have been hard to decipher.

And god dammit all to hell.  _Jimmy_.

Bucky Barnes was a blood-soaked legend throughout the European theatre, and his quirky name was instantly recognizable. But Jimmy - it was one of those silly things that popped up when half the Commando unit had the name James. A silly moniker, one only used for messages and mission reports.

Now here it is in another context. Exactly like Steve told him.

The strange thing though, is that even with these letters and her story and confirmation from Steve’s tales - there are still no memories of her that he can recall. Normally they come flooding back when someone hands him information like she’s done, but they’re still inaccessible in his brain and that fact sits bitter in his stomach. All he can claim are the tentative words offered from her heart, through these quiet recollections and worn handwriting scrawled across yellowed paper.

But the icy rock lodged in his gut begins to melt when it dawns on him.

Before everything, before he fell from that train, before his life crashed and burned, he had something. He had  _someone_. He had a life and a future and a woman who loved him.

He was  _in_   _love_  with someone.

His brain still refuses to show him the past, but his heart – that’s another matter. Like an iron fist, muscle memory grips him and the curtain lifts. It’s a god damn tragedy that he can’t remember her, that he can’t recall the feel of her lips or the scent of her skin or any of the words she must have gifted him in her letters. It’s a tragedy and he’ll never forgive himself, but in this moment, he realizes that it’s okay.

This is why his breath catches every time she smiles at him. This is why he felt his stomach plunge the first time she spoke. This is why her laugh sets his blood on fire.

Because his heart never forgot her. Not once, not for a single moment.

Against all odds, across the endless chasm of space and time, they found each other again. Maybe this is it. Maybe after all the shit he’s been dealt, Fate decided to lift her endless ban on allowing Bucky Barnes a measure of happiness.

Maybe Fate is giving them another chance.

Well if that’s the case, he’s sure as god damn hell not going to lose it.

“Shit,” he breathes, jumping to his feet. Flying to the door, he throws it open, panicked she’s somehow slipped away, disappeared and left him all alone.

And then he skids to a stop.

Wrapped in her fluffy winter coat, she sits huddled on the front steps. At the sound of the door, she stumbles to her feet and spins to face him. Her hands are clenched in tight fists at her side and there is such naked, desperate hope in her eyes. To be seen, to be loved.

To be  _remembered_.

Bucky steps slowly onto the porch. Cautiously, as though he’s afraid she could shatter, he reaches for her. Burning hot palms lay gently on her frozen cheeks, wandering blue eyes search every inch of her face, and he hears her breath snap harshly.

He leans closer, lets gentle lips ghost over her forehead, over fluttering eyelids, over the tip of her nose, to the softness of her lips. Searching, searching, searching, searing the scent of her skin back into his brain. When he touches hesitant lips to hers, he feels her mouth open to him, and he drinks up her shaky breath with a contented sigh.

Pulling back, he looks into wide eyes brimming with fierce, terrified love. Without a second thought, he lays himself at her mercy and begs the forgiveness he should have requested decades ago.

“I’m here. I’m here now, and I’m so god damn sorry I took so long.” Rubbing his thumb lightly over her lips, he stares in wonder. His gaze roams hungrily over her face, drinking in the color of her eyes, the shape of her nose, the curve of her lips. Every detail he never knew he missed until suddenly he did. “I see you. I see all of you. Let me memorize it, I never want to forget again.”

In the next moment, her shoulders begin to tremble. Small tremors at first, until her whole body is shaking, her breath rattling in her lungs, and the dam breaks.

“Bucky,” she whispers and her voice cracks, the sob ripping from her throat. “ _Bucky_.”

Gravity brings them together, two dying stars collapsing into each other. He folds her in his arms and in the steel cage of his body, protected against the world, she lets go and she cries. She cries for  _everything_.

For her past. For Bucky. For the life they could have had and for everything they lost. For all the secrets and hiding and half-truths. For everything both of them have done. For the decades spent apart, the solitude she fell into, and the horrors he endured.

Tears pour out, great heaving sobs and she burrows into him, the first real taste of heat she’s felt since that barren Parisian apartment at the dawning of 1970. His hands rub up and down her back, and he hushes her softly, murmuring soothing words again and again.

“You’re okay, I’m here, I got you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not letting go.”

Gently picking her up, he slips back into the warmth of the living room, locking the door against the cold night. Stepping carefully to the couch, he falls into the velvety cushions, hugging her close. She sobs seventy years of heartbreak against his chest, and Bucky rocks her, answering her pain with hot, silent tears dripping down his cheeks.

 

*****

 

The night crawls by, a full white moon traveling a slow arc above the small cabin, while he cradles her in his arms. In the final hour before dawn, he rises from the couch.

Emotionally drained, she fell asleep hours ago. Now, she curls into him as he carries her up the stairs to her bed. Unwilling to let go for even a moment, he keeps her tucked to his chest when he sinks into the soft pillows. In the depths of sleep, she hugs him tighter, winding herself around him.

Where does he end, and where does she begin? It’s impossible to define.

Her refusal to let go is fine with him. Bucky doesn’t plan to leave anytime soon.

In her sleep, she sighs in contentment, because for the first time in a lifetime, she feels warm. Safe and protected, she doesn’t need a pile of blankets.

Bucky is enough.

 

*****

 

Light filters through the tall evergreens outside her window and when she wakes, she’s surrounded by heat. Opening puffy eyes, she finds Bucky lying beside her, bright eyes calm and watchful.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

“Bucky?” she whispers, disbelief clear in her eyes. “You’re still here?”

He runs a light finger down her cheek. “I meant it. I’m not going anywhere.”

There they are, the words she’s wanted her entire life. She has no clue if they’ll fade away, but for now, she lets herself believe him, because hope feels so much softer than the black abyss of depression.

“You’ll stay?” she repeats numbly. Needing to hear the words one more time.

“I’ll stay,” he answers, his fingers still brushing her skin. “Long as you’ll let me. We have a love story to remember.”

 

*****

 

So, he stays.

Bit by bit, they begin to discover who they are now, after decades apart. Bit by bit, she offers small memories that he clings to with ferocious enthusiasm. Bit by bit, they find the new rhythm of a life together.

And bit by bit, they fall back in love.

 

*****

 

Gripping a mug of coffee between fingerless gloved fingers, she gives him a dubious look.

“Have you ever chopped wood before?”

“Nah, but how hard can it be?” Bucky shrugs, hefting the ax. “Steve said he did it. I can do it.”

He balances a chunk of wood on the stump and scrutinizes it from all angles, before choosing his approach. Lining up the blade, he takes aim and with a smooth swing, slices it neatly in two.

His eyes dance excitedly when he looks at her. “I feel like this could be cathartic. Can I keep going?”

She looks at the huge pile of logs stacked behind him. “Knock yourself out.”

He considers her for a moment and then stands up a fat log, twisting it to sit level in the snow, away from any bark shrapnel, but close enough he can see her.

“Keep me company?” he asks.

She plops happily on the log, savoring the image of his tall, heavily muscled form. “Anytime,” she says softly.

 

*****

 

“I saw in that journal, you watched the moon landing? Back in ’68?”

Her eyes light up. “I did. It was unbelievable.”

“Wish I could’ve seen it,” Bucky says wistfully. “Would’ve been so cool.”

“Yeah,” she says softly, “it really was.”

The ax embeds in the stump with a thwack and he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. He comes over to her and leans down, his mouth warm when it touches hers.

“You were right,” he admits. “I’d have signed up with NASA in a heartbeat, if I could’ve.”

“I thought you might,” she murmurs against his lips and he hums.

“Hey. Would you go up to space with me?”

She kisses the tip of his nose. “I’ll go anywhere with you.”

 

*****

 

“Since you’ve come back, what’s the strangest mission you’ve been on?”

Bucky contemplates the question, while he searches for the perfect chunk of wood.

“Well, last year there was this one where a crazy ass botanist engineered this breed of super Venus Fly Traps that came to life.”

“A crazy  _what_? No.”

“Dead serious. It caught me in the middle of the fight and broke its teeth on my arm,” he says, shuddering. “Got all this sticky saliva shit on me. So fucking gross. When I got home, I threw away all the plants in the Tower, you know. Just in case.”

She presses her lips together, but a fit of hysterical giggles makes her double-over, clutching her stomach.

“Cross my heart,” Bucky insists. He plants his hands on his hips and pulls a face. “I can’t believe you’re laughing, I was terrified!”

 

*****

 

“Tell me more things about you,” he grunts as he swings the ax. “Like for instance, why did you keep a bunch of t-shirts from Bon Jovi’s 1986 tour?”

Looking over to her, he finds her eyes comically wide. Deer in the headlights. He can practically see her mind racing while she debates the answer.

“Um. Okay, so listen,” she starts, and Bucky feels a silly grin beginning. “No, stop. I mean it. Bucky, shut up!”

Laughter spills out at her embarrassment.

“Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles. “I won’t laugh. I’m  _interested_. Just wanna hear more about you. Continue. Please.”

Arms crossed, she sighs heavily and shoots him an embarrassed look.

“Look, it’s not that big a deal. I  _may_  have had a crush on Bon Jovi. Okay? It was 1986 and I loved that album and his voice was so sexy and he had this beautiful  _hair_ , and I just – you promised you wouldn’t laugh!”

She grabs a piece of wood and throws it at his leg and he laughs harder.

 

*****

 

After a long day of chopping wood, her shed is bursting at the seams. Warm and cozy on her couch, Bucky stares off into space, while she sits beside him, absorbed in a book.

“Did I get blood all over the seats in your truck?” he asks suddenly.

Wrinkling her nose, she glances up and gives him an apologetic look. “Yeah. You did. I need to get it cleaned. Or buy seat covers, so I don’t have to explain why it looks like a murder scene.”

“Ugh,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs good-naturedly and grins. “I don’t mind. Least no one will steal it.”

She goes back to her book. He goes back to spacing off.

“But you have another truck in that old shed, right? Didn’t I see one?”

“Yes, an old clunker from the ‘50s. It hasn’t run for years though.”

“Hmm.”

Bemused, her lips quirk up. “Any reason you’re asking?”

“Just thinking,” he mumbles vaguely.

He goes back to spacing off. She goes back to her book.

Two minutes later, he jumps up and she topples over into the cushions. Looking down, he rubs his mouth while she untangles herself from her blanket.

“Shit. Sorry. Got an idea,” he says, offering her a hand. Pulling her to her feet, he starts collecting the multitude of blankets strewn about the living room, folding them into piles. Tucking them under his arm, he heads into the kitchen, rummaging in the cabinet for a bottle of wine and two plastic cups. Striding over to the front door, he sets the pile down and grabs her winter coat, extending it out without a word.

“What is this?” she asks suspiciously, shrugging into the coat. Bucky takes a knobby wool scarf from a hook and helps her wrap it securely around her throat.

“Get your gloves,” he replies. “And those furry snow boots.”

Finally buttoned up, he appraises her from head to toe, satisfied with the result. Grabbing his own coat, he pulls it carelessly on, picks up the pile of blankets and wine, and opens the door.

“Follow me,” he says, heading down the porch.

Stomping toward the rickety garage near the cabin, he pulls open the doors and props them open. Sitting in the small space, is an old light blue Land Rover.

Bucky takes her puffy gloved hand and pulls her to the passenger side door. Opening it with a dramatic flourish, he nods for her to get in.

“It doesn’t even run, Bucky,” she argues, climbing up into the dusty seats.

Bucky goes to the driver’s door and slides inside. Giving her a grin, he flips the flashlight on his phone and hands it to her, lighting up the interior of the cab while he reaches blindly below the steering column.

“Any chance you got a screwdriver?”

“I do, actually,” she answers, flipping open the glove box to snag the wobbly screwdriver that went to die there years ago. But where it’s normally nestled, she finds only blank space.

She blinks. How strange. When was the last time she was even in this truck?

“No matter,” Bucky grunts, and with a few strategic jerks, he pulls the metal cover away. A nest of tangled wires falls loose, ribbons of white and red and yellow. She shines the light on his fiddling, and with a practiced hand, he selects several and strips the ends until they fray. Tapping them together a few times, she hears the sharp crackle of electric current and suddenly the ancient truck sputters to life.

“What? How?” she asks excitedly. “How’d you do that?”

Bucky grins and tucks the wires away. The gas gauge shows a nearly full tank, so he fiddles with the dials and cranks the heat up full blast. It smells like wet leaves and a hint of motor oil, but there’s a welcome nostalgia to the scent. Unfolding the blankets, Bucky wraps one around her shoulders, and spreads another over their laps. He situates her legs across his thighs and wraps an arm around her.

“Reading those letters, I saw I made you a promise. Said I’d take you to a drive-in movie. Here we are, seventy god forsaken years later, and I still haven’t taken you on a date. Seems overdue,” he thumbs through the video app on his phone until he finds an old favorite. Pressing play, he props it up on the dash and turns to her with a crooked smile. “This is my favorite movie. Thinkin’ you might like it too.”

The screen is blank and then a tornado of sound surrounds them and big white letters flash across a black and white screen.

“ _Oh_ ,” she sighs delightedly. Humming contentedly, he drops a kiss to her forehead and she lays her head on his shoulder, while the opening theme from  _The Wizard of Oz_  begins to play. “You’re amazing Bucky Barnes.”

“Well, that’s what I’m always telling people,” he agrees, his voice sweet against her skin. “I’m glad you agree.”

Watching the movie together is an experience. Bucky hums along to the music while she repeats the dialogue under her breath. The movie is clearly an old hat for them both, and the familiarity is comforting.

It’s not until Dorothy’s skipping down the yellow brick road in her sparkly red shoes, that she notices he’s gone quiet. Glancing at him, she finds blue eyes riveted on her. A slow smile spreads over his face, and he leans down to leave a featherlight kiss at the corner of her mouth; then the hinge of her jaw; then the smooth spot behind her ear.

“I thought we were watching a movie,” she murmurs, tilting her head to offer up the curve of her neck.

“But we’re at the drive-in,” Bucky answers, his lips tracing the shell of her ear. She shivers at the feel and tries to scoot closer. “This is what the kids do. They ignore the show and make out, right?”

“Yes, I think I read that somewhere,” she replies breathlessly. “A letter I had from a rather charming soldier. Some American, I think.”

Rubbing his scratchy face along her neck, he makes a disapproving noise and his teeth nip her ear.

“Charming American soldier, huh? What’s his name? I’m gonna kick his ass.”

“No ass kicking.” She pokes him in the belly and he grunts a surprised laugh. “I sort of like him.”

 

*****

 

The truck still idles along, while the windows have long since fogged over. Dorothy makes it back to Kansas safe and sound, returned to a world of black and white.  _There’s no place like home_ , Bucky hears the voiceover in the background. Immersed in reacquainting himself with the taste of her lips, he agrees.

There really is no place like home.

 

*****

 

“Was it always like this?” he murmurs the next night. Laying face-down on the couch, his face is nuzzled in her lap, his arms wound around her waist. Cool fingers scratch lightly at his scalp and he rubs against her like a cat.

“Well, you were a little sappy sometimes,” she teases. “But I loved it.”

Muffled laughter rumbles deep in his chest and he hugs her tighter.

“This feels so easy. Never thought I’d get something like this.”

“Sometimes you get lucky, I guess. You fit with someone, like they were made for you. That was us.”

“I just wish I could  _remember_.” Disappointment vibrates in every syllable. “All those years with Hydra, that shit’s coming back. Nightmares and — memories of what I did to people. I don’t understand why that’s there, and my stupid ass brain refuses to give me you.”

Her hand pauses briefly, before resuming the gentle strokes.

“I know,” she says, and Bucky hears the thread of sorrow wound through her words. “None of this was fair. You deserved so much more than what they did and I - I’m  _so sorry_  Bucky.”

“No, don’t. I’m the one who should be apologizing.” He rolls onto his back and pillows his head in her lap. His expression is dark when he grinds out the words. “I just  _left_  you. Fell off a fuckin’ train and left you alone. I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

For the longest time, she doesn’t speak. Lost in thought, she gazes out the living room windows, fingers still absently stroking his hair. When she finally looks down, he sees ancient resignation in her face.

“Listen to me. I never want you to apologize Bucky, it was a war. I walked into loving you with my eyes wide open and I don’t regret a single day. I never have. You were worth it.” She pauses, and a strange look comes over her face, an odd blend of sadness and regret and - fear. It disappears as quickly as it comes, and her voice drops to a low whisper. “I’m full of memories. After all these years, after everything I - after being alone for so long. Sometimes I think I’ll drown from them.”

Drowning in the past. There’s a feeling he knows. Curling his fingers around the back of her neck, he tugs her face down.

“Give them to me then,” he breathes against her lips. “I get it. Better than anyone. Remembering things, sometimes it’s a burden. You don’t have to do it alone. I’m with you now, let me help.”

The sentiment breaks her heart.

She says nothing. She kisses him instead.

 

*****

 

In the middle of the night, watching the stars wink through the window of her bedroom, she lays awake and thinks.

Bucky is sprawled on his stomach beside her, still dressed in his old sweats and his Captain America shirt. One arm is curved tight around her waist, a leg thrown over her knee, his deep even breaths warm against her neck. It’s funny, she muses. He sleeps the same as he did during their brief time together in 1944. With his nose to her skin and his limbs clutching her tight. Like her softness is the balm he needs to combat the horrors that come for him in his dreams.

It’s strange, in a way. He knows her more intimately than anyone on Earth. Emotionally. Physically. But even with a knowledge of what they used to be, he keeps a tight rein on his desire, nothing more than chaste brushes of his fingers that leave her restless for more. But while his hands may be innocent, his kisses still leave her breathless - they’re untamed, wild and enthusiastic, overflowing with passion. Before though, where his lips carried a hint of frantic panic, now there’s one big difference.

They have  _time_. Something they never had before.

There’s no miserable march back into the suffocating arms of war. No desperate need to hide from Hydra after a stolen rendezvous in the night. Time is finally on their side, to rebuild his memories of their past, to create new memories together. An infinite world of opportunities sits before them and she revels in that fact.

Beneath it all though, remains that nagging flicker of fear.

Because as happy as she is now, she’s terrified of the future and the possibility it could all end once more. After finding him again, after slipping back into his arms, after falling in love again, she knows if he were to leave now? It would break her for good. There’d be no coming back from it. Life has stolen him from her too many times already.

This time, hope would not be enough to tether together the shattered remnants of a heart.

Shifting deeper into the pillows, he hugs her tighter. His lips brush her skin and he presses a sleepy kiss to her shoulder.

“Can’t sleep?” he mumbles groggily.

“Just thinking,” she whispers. “I’m okay, go back to sleep.”

Bucky hums in drowsy agreement and goes quiet. Minutes pass and his breathing resumes the steady pattern and she resumes her dreary train of thought.

 _What is it, about the middle of the night,_ she wonders drily,  _that makes your brain relive the worst parts of your life?_

On and on it goes. The steady beat of his heart, the heat of his skin, the dangerous trajectory of her thoughts. Until his soft voice breaks the silence of the night, pulling her back to the present.

“Can you tell me another story? Another memory about us?”

Another memory. A simple request. Memories are the one thing she can always do.

“What do you want to know?” she asks, petting his tangled mess of hair.

“Everything. Tell me more of our love story,” he murmurs, his voice raspy with sleep. He snuggles impossibly closer. “I wanna know it all.”

 _I wanna know it all_. An innocent request.

There are so many things she wants to tell him. Things she  _needs_  to tell him. But those words, those memories, they’re buried too deep and she can’t. Unearthing them would destroy her.

Instead, her mind weaves through their love story, pulling forward a memory she’s replayed a thousand times before. The memory of his one other visit to the village, right before their world went pear-shaped. She was hesitant to tell him about that night, about the question he asked, because she  _knows_  he’s not the same.  _They’re_ not the same and she doesn’t want him to think -

But her heart beats faster.

Twisting a lock of his hair around her finger, she gropes for the right words, his fingers stroking lightly down her arm.

_I wanna know it all._

In the middle of the night, watching the stars wink through the window of her bedroom, she takes a deep breath.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re headed back to 1944! War really sucks and Bucky Barnes is a hopeless romantic. Their last night together in the village turns up something beautiful, but ultimately sad. The angsty stuff kicks off here…

**_Late December, 1944  
_ ** **_Somewhere in France_ **

The sky is a deep, leaden grey when she hurries from the back door. Stepping carefully over slick paving stones, she heads to the tiny chicken coop, where one scraggly chicken remains. Every day, she expects she'll arrive to find the poor thing dead, but against all odds, the hen has persevered.

As she walks, she picks at the fraying threads at her wrist. The moss green coat is looking worse for wear these days. Where the elbows have worn through, she's patched with mismatched cloth from one of her old dresses. It's not ideal, but still serviceable.

_It doesn't matter, not really_ , she tells herself.

After five long years, the war rages on. Ravaging the countryside, turning the world to ash, leaving nothing but death in its wake. Nearly all the men who left the village remain on the front; those who returned, are buried under weathered gravestones in the little cemetery.

Letters are less frequent, but far too often, telegrams arrive. Their messengers clutch their hats in sweaty fists when they hand it over, and that tenuous grip on sanity is ripped from a family's fingers.

But here, through everything and against the odds - she survives.

And every day, she holds her breath, waiting for him to come home.

Sleep, wake, work, sleep. Every day a dogged routine. But even though the world is on fire, sometimes when she's sliding into that sweet headspace between dreaming and awake, she starts to think about the future.

It's an indulgence, but she has this daydream. About wearing a pretty dress that twirls when she dances. About painting her lips with bright red lipstick and dabbing a bit of perfume behind her ears. About holding a glass of deliciously fizzy champagne and seeing Bucky in a sharp black suit, the collar of his crisp white shirt open, a bowtie loose around his neck. About him pulling her onto the dance floor while the band begins a slow song, something full of nostalgia, because they made it through, the soldier and his girl. About how in the middle of the dance floor, in front of god and everyone, Bucky picks her up and kisses her breathless, his breath like honeyed whiskey. About that little bead of sweat rolling down his temple and her kissing it away.

It's a nice daydream.

"Good morning, little lady," she says under her breath, reaching the busted down chicken coop. Searching beneath the warm feathers, she finds a single egg and pulls it away. Stroking the bird lightly, she receives a sleepy cluck in return. "Thank you," she murmurs, clutching the warm egg in her palm.

Standing straight, she shivers when an icy breeze cuts through the thin dress and wool stockings. Latching the door shut, she trudges back to her house.

She pulls up short.

A soldier sits on the back step, staring at his boots, his hands folded patiently while he waits.

Bucky's hair is shaggier than her memories and a thick beard covers his face, but he looks like everything she's missed.

When the sound of her steps reaches him, he looks up and scrambles quickly to his feet. Standing in silence, he watches her nervously, strangely unsure of his reception, despite months of sweet words and declarations of love. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he swallows hard before he finally speaks.

"Hey darlin'. You look real pretty."

His voice is raspy, exhausted and broken, and she closes her eyes, because she's had this dream before. It was soul crushing when she woke up.

She counts to three.

When she opens her eyes,  _thank god_ , he's still there. She places the lone egg in the small basket she carries and sets it carefully on the ground. Bucky watches her, longing clear in his face.

And she  _runs_  to him.

Throwing herself in his arms, he catches her and lifts her up, pulling her legs around his waist and wrapping his arms around her. With no preamble, she finds his lips and kisses him with everything she has. It's sloppy and messy and frantic and Bucky  _savors_  it. Responding with a low groan, his mouth moves against hers, desperation in every twist of his lips.

"Oh god, I missed you," he breathes, when they finally come up for air. "I missed you – Jesus Christ,  _fuck_ , I missed you so god damn much. I'm not leaving again, not ever," he swears.

It's a lie, they both know it. But like her daydream, it's so pretty, they let themselves believe it. Just for a little while.

*****

"How long do we have?" she asks, pouring him a cup of weak coffee. It's the last bit she's been hoarding, but he looks so tired, so utterly obliterated, this seems like a good time. When she moves to sit in the chair across from him, Bucky makes a noise of dissent and scoots away from the table. Motioning to his lap, he gives her an imploring look and she can't help but smile. She sits gingerly on his knees and he rolls his eyes and tugs her close. So, she throws an arm across his chest, tucks her face into his neck. Bucky sighs happily, keeping one arm curled around her, the other gripping the hot mug.

"Just a couple days, then we're back out. Had to do a fair bit of sweet talking to get them to stop here," he says and presses dry, chapped lips to her temple. "Convinced command back in London this was a strategic stopover before we pick up the chase."

"What are you chasing?" She wraps the chain of his dog tags tight around her finger. It leaves an impressive ring of round indentions in her skin.

"Been searching for this guy, this sci –  _scientist_."

He trips over the last word, body tensing at the statement and she tightens in response. She still doesn't know what happened to him as a POW, but this type of anxiety is all too familiar.

_Scientists._  Yes. She knows about scientists.

Sometimes he says things like this, about his job, and the confident mask falls. His breath comes fast and shallow for a moment, but then she squeezes him hard and kisses his neck. He remains rigid, but the soothing press of lips seems to help. Clearing his throat, he keeps talking. "Running after him for months now. He keeps slipping away."

"You're being careful out there?"

Bucky doesn't respond. He wipes the rim of the coffee mug with his thumb.

"Course I am," he finally answers.

There's a lie.

She wants to argue. Make him promise to put himself first, to be careful and cautious, to steer clear of danger in every way possible, because he's all that she has. But it would make no difference. War is what he does. A job he never wanted but one he picked up with horrifying ease.

Instead, she simply hugs him and changes the subject. Bit by bit, she coaxes him out of his head. Bit by bit, she brings him back to himself.

_Himself._ Someone he hasn't known in a long time.

*****

The next morning finds Bucky and Steve jammed shoulder-to-shoulder into a small room off the nave of the village church. Piles of hand-drawn maps litter the polished surface of the priest's desk and Steve sifts through the mess, setting aside the most relevant, while Bucky marks notes in the margins with a fat red pencil.

Dismantling Hydra across Europe has been swift and successful, but to keep going, they need more intel. And to get more intel, they need to find Arnim Zola. The game of cat and mouse between them gets trickier every day, as he slips through their traps, infuriating Bucky and sending Steve into fits of anger.

Hours pass as they add details from the local maps, using the roads and paths and markers unaccounted for in the debriefs from London to flesh out their search strategy. This has to work. This has to help.

They hope, anyway.

"You're sure it's okay?" Steve asks for the third time, looking up at the priest. Folding the maps, he clears the desk while Bucky tucks the pencil behind his ear.

"Take whatever you need," the priest confirms. "Anything to help."

Steve nods gratefully, stuffing the pile inside his jacket.

Leaving the stuffy air of the little office, the two men follow the priest down the familiar church aisle. As they pass the pew, Bucky automatically looks to where he saw her sitting that sunny Sunday. Clear as day, he recalls her pretty dress and her pretty smile and the way she peeked at him during prayers.

God, he loves that image. His dragging steps find a renewed bounce at the thought of heading back to her.

Coming into the dreary afternoon light, all three men pause on the front steps of the small church and Bucky hears the priest utter a nearly inaudible sigh. His white collar sits askew at his neck and he scratches at it absently, looking out over the dead grass in the small cemetery next to the church.

"Have you lost very many?" Bucky asks quietly. The town seems different than the first time they visited, the crushing fatigue of war bearing down harder than ever.

"Yes. We had a few boys come back last week from – from Italy. Had a hard frost a week earlier and couldn't get them buried, there's no way to dig through the frozen ground. Been tough on the families, having them wrapped up in the vaults below the church. They'll have to stay there, until the ground thaws."

This is not uncommon. This is how things work. Death in the winter is a grim affair.

Lips drawn in a tight line, Steve rubs exhausted blue eyes and looks over to Bucky; he raises an eyebrow in question.

Bucky considers him for a moment. He wants nothing more than to walk back to her home and crawl into the safety of her arms. But in war, and in life, it's common courtesy to repay those who've helped you. He thinks about the maps that will hopefully lead them closer to Zola, closer to ending this madness, closer to coming back to her for good.

He swallows hard and nods.

"We'll dig the graves for you. Least we can do for the help."

The priest hesitates with his response. "That's very kind of you boys, but the ground really is frozen. I don't think you can dig through."

Steve gives him a kind smile. "It's alright. We'll manage."

*****

Bucky drives the sharp shovel into the mound of black earth. Leaning heavily on the handle, he swipes a shaking hand over the line of cold sweat on his forehead.

"M'done," he says hoarsely to Steve. Four freshly dug graves line the edge of the little graveyard, waiting patiently for their occupants to arrive.

It took some doing, but between the two of them, they managed. Once they broke through the frozen layer, the rest was easy. Of course, it helps that Steve is stronger than the normal soldier and that Bucky is – well, that Bucky's strong as well.

Steve tosses one final heap of dirt and stretches with a low groan.

"Go on," Bucky urges, tugging the shovel from his hands. He needs Steve to sleep, because he  _hasn't_  in days. "Get some sleep. You know we gotta leave first thing."

"Yeah," Steve sighs. He claps his hands, brushing away the dry feel of dust. "Guess you're staying with your girl tonight?"

"Course," Bucky says with a tired smile. He toys with the button on his blue jacket. "Got something to ask her."

Steve squeezes his shoulder affectionately. "Really gonna do it, huh? Nervous?"

Bucky squints up at the pinpricks of starlight peppering the dark sky and gives voice to the doubt in his mind. "Yeah. I don't know. I've been thinking...about all the shit I've done, and I'm - fuck, Steve. You've seen me out there. I'm not exactly a good person. Not anymore." He looks over, weary confusion in his face. "Am I selfish? Wantin' her this way? Doesn't she deserve better?"

Steve just looks at him. That same penetrating gaze he's had since the day he found Bucky back in Azzano. Bucky still hasn't told him everything and Steve keeps waiting, but he knows it's in vain. Bucky Barnes is a master at stomping down his feelings.

So, Steve gets philosophical instead.

"You know, it seems like the world wants to romanticize this. The war. They write songs and poetry and tell all these grand stories, but we all know it's fuckin' bullshit. There's nothing romantic here. I smell like  _actual_  shit and all Dugan's toenails fell off last week and you got someone's fuckin'  _brains_  on your coat the other day." He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "None of us are getting out of this war without changing. That includes her. Don't go using that as an excuse. You love her and she loves you, and this world's so god damn fucked up, but you have that. Don't forget it."

Bucky tips his head back up, gazing at the stars. He thinks for a moment, then looks back at Steve and gives him a serious nod.

"Every now and then you're not a total asshole.  _Smell_  like one maybe, but - "

He ducks when Steve tries to cuff him.

"God you're a jerk," Steve states fervently.

"Damn straight," Bucky says. "Now go on. It's your dumb ass wanting to leave at dawn."

Giving him a mocking salute, Steve trudges back toward the make-shift camp the team set up on the edge of town. Bucky watches him walk, until the outline of Captain Steve Rogers is swallowed up in the encroaching night.

All he wants is to head back to her, but he needs a minute. Needs to clear out the dark thoughts vying for space in his head, because he sure as hell doesn't want to bring those within a mile of her.

Setting the shovels against the bullet riddled wall of the church, he drops to the frozen dirt and leans back. Digging inside his jacket, he fishes out the last smoke from the battered pack he keeps hidden inside. Holding it between his teeth, he pats his pockets, feeling for his lucky lighter.

"God fuckin'  _dammit_ ," he swears softly, realizing the damn thing is still in his pack. Frustrated, he bangs his head against the wall and shuts his eyes.

Someone drops beside him. Bucky hears the metal rasp and a flame appears. Looking over, he finds the tired face of the priest giving him a wry smile. He leans over, tips the cigarette into the fire and inhales.

"Thanks Padre," he grunts in greeting.

"Sure thing," the priest says, snapping it shut. He leans against the stone next to Bucky and gets comfortable. "You know, the last time you were here, you were pretty intent on interrupting my service."

"Ah yeah. Sorry about that," Bucky says with a weak smile. He takes another slow drag. "Was awful interested in someone else that day."

"Yes, that much was clear," the priest says with a chuckle. Stretching out his long legs, he crosses the ankles, fiddling with his lighter. "So. How is it out there?"

What a loaded question.

How is it out there?

Hell. Black, bloody, brutal. The very worst parts of his nightmares magnified by a thousand. Humans are terrible and people are suffering in ways he never imagined, because war is fucking hell on earth. He wants to pack up his shit, break his rifle across his knee, get his girl and go  _home_.

How is it out there?

It's motherfucking awful out there.

"It's - fine," Bucky says instead. He examines the bright red cherry on the tip of his smoke. Takes another long drag, blows the thin stream into the icy air. "Just gettin' tired. Trying to find a reason to keep fighting, I guess. I know it's the right thing to do. These rumors you're hearing. Camps and babies and...experiments. All of it's true. Every fuckin' word," he grimaces at the effortless swear and looks apologetically at the priest. "Sorry."

The priest just shrugs. "S'okay Sergeant. I've heard worse. Said worse, in fact."

Bucky gives a humorless laugh. "Sure, sure." He tugs at a loose string on his jacket and thinks. "Guess I'm having trouble finding something to follow, you know?"

"What do you believe in?"

Staring off into space, Bucky wonders. What does he believe in? A long time ago, he thought he knew. Life, liberty. Freedom. Fighting the good fight. But now? His morals are shot to shit and he has no idea which way is up. He's drifting along, half human while he chips away at his humanity a little more with each bullet from his gun. Each slice of his knife. What the hell  _does_  he believe in?

He can think of nothing, until he can. Until the one word that makes it all right rises to his lips.

"Love," Bucky answers honestly. He cocks his head to the side and considers to the priest. "I believe in love. Making the world better for other people. For my family. For Steve." His eyes drift the familiar path toward her house and he smiles without realizing. "For her."

"Then that's what you follow."

"You're telling me to follow my heart? Little corny, ain't it?"

The priest smiles faintly. "Maybe," he agrees. "Up to you to find out."

Renewed, Bucky drops the cigarette and grinds it with the heel of his boot. He climbs to his feet and offers a silent hand to the priest, hauling him off the ground.

"Thanks, Padre."

"Good luck Sergeant."

*****

Lugging the boiling water into the bathroom, she splashes it into the old porcelain tub. It's taken close to an hour now, of heating water over the fireplace and transferring it to the bath.

She's in the bathroom, adding the final bucket, when the backdoor opens. There's a rustling and she hears Bucky shrugging out of the blue coat, taking off his boots and lining them up in a military straight line. When he pads into the kitchen calling her name, the bucket slips and she hisses a frustrated curse.

"Wha – are you okay?"

She comes out of the bathroom off the kitchen and huffs out a breath. Sweat drips down her face and her arms are shaking from the effort, but she gives him a broad smile.

"You interested in a hot bath, Sergeant?"

Eyes going wide, Bucky hesitates for the briefest moment, before he's suddenly slipping over the cold stone floor of her kitchen, stripping as he goes. His shirt goes flying, he hops on one foot to remove each sock, his fingers scrabble furiously at his worn leather belt. By the time he reaches the tub, he's down to his drab, olive colored military issue boxers and an ecstatic smile.

"I hope you're serious, or this is gonna be real awkward," he jokes and she laughs. Motioning to the water, she turns around and gives him privacy, busying herself while he removes the boxers. It seems silly, considering what they've shared, but she doesn't want to presume.

There's a splash and then Bucky is stuttering out a long, satisfied moan. The sound makes her stomach somersault.

"Can I look?" she teases, her throat suddenly and intensely dry. He chuckles.

"Please do. Ain't much fun otherwise."

She turns to see him slouched in the water, and then Bucky takes a deep breath and ducks under, immersing himself completely. Under the film of water, eyes closed and dark hair floating around him, he looks like an angel. He holds his breath for so long, she starts to worry, until he breaks the surface with a gasping laugh. Water cascades in rivers of bright sparkles down his face and spiky clumps of black eyelashes frame his blue eyes.

"Like trying to bathe a child," she says, a mock stern note in her voice and Bucky gives her a crooked grin.

"Sorry, sorry. I'll be good, cross my heart."

Poking him in the ribs, he shies away and laughs again and  _my god, she missed that sound_. It sings through her blood, a drug she never realized she craved.

Wetting her hands in the hot water, she lathers up a small chunk of soap. Bucky hunches forward and she lathers his hair, scratching her nails deep to rub away the sweat and dirt caked at his hairline, relishing his soft little moans. Scooping up the hot water, she douses his head over and over, rinsing soap from the dark tangle of hair, until the water runs clear. Pressing against his chest, she pushes him back against the tub and he goes easily, but when she tries to move her hand away, he catches it. She feels the rough bristles of hair beneath her palm and she meets his eyes.

"Will you get in here with me?"

Those blue eyes pleading with her, the hitch in his voice, it stirs a fierce protectiveness in her. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't refuse. Nodding cautiously, she steps behind him and he leans back in the bath, closing his eyes with a sigh.

She sheds her clothes quickly and observes him for another moment. He looks thinner, the lean muscle trending toward a gauntness she doesn't like to see. Dark circles are smeared below his eyes, the kind no amount of scrubbing will wash away, and there are new scars littering his body. Thick lines of raised tissue speaking of blades and bullets, and she feels a wave of ice sweep through her at the thought of him courting death on so many occasions. His plush lips, before so quick to quirk up into an easy smile, are curved down.

He looks ravaged, by this war.

In that moment, she decides – if they make it through this thing, if Fate gives them a chance to be together, to  _make a life together_ , then she will fix this for him. It doesn't matter that she gave it up, that she vowed to never do it again. Seeing him like this, she can't stand it. She can help him and she will.

So many thoughts flood her brain in the blink of an eye, but then she's stepping into the hot water and sinking down between his spread legs. Leaning against him, she pulls his arms to wrap around her and Bucky sighs blissfully. Bracketing her with his legs, he holds onto her so tightly she can barely breath, but she welcomes the pressure.

It's nice to be needed.

Water sloshes over the edge while he resettles. Steam rises in spirals around them, blanketing her skin with an instant layer of dampness. It should be a little cool, but it is the exact opposite; everything feels scorching hot. The water, the thick porcelain tub, Bucky's hard body, Bucky's lips at her shoulder, Bucky's tongue licking up her neck. Everything is full of heat, Bucky is fire and she's melting.

"You taste like heaven," he whispers, sucking gently at the skin along her shoulder. "Better'n anything I've ever had."

Nothing goes any further. Bucky holds her tight, his hands skimming reverently up and down her arms, his fingers occasionally brushing across her breasts. His touch leaves a deep-seated ache, one she grows increasingly desperate to slack. But he seems content with this, with simply holding her.

An hour passes and the water grows cool. When she lifts her toes from the water, she laughs quietly.

"I'm very wrinkly."

Huffing a laugh into her ear, Bucky rises from the tub, dripping across the floor to search for towels. Finding two, he gives himself a quick rub down and then slips back into his boxers. They cling to his still-damp skin and she drinks her fill of him, before raising her eyes to his face.

The laughter fades at his expression, at the lust tightening his mouth; she rises quickly from the water.

"No, wait," he urges when she goes to step out. "Lemme help."

Helping her from the tub, he takes a towel and carefully pats every inch of her body dry. She wonders if she should feel self-conscious at his eyes roaming over her, but there's such clear worship in his face, her nudity is nothing. Instead, she feels a warmth in her belly that grows, spidering into the tips of her fingers as she reaches for him.

Catching his face between her hands, she lifts it to hers, gently pressing her thumb into the cleft of his chin. "You're really beautiful, you know that?"

There it is. The slow smile she's been waiting for. It's almost like watching the sun rise, the way it arrives, nothing and then everything. He rubs the tip of his nose against hers and hums appreciatively.

"No one's ever called me that before. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Can I assume, that was your way of talkin' me into bed?" he whispers and her heart skips at the playful glint in his eyes.

"Did it work?" she whispers back and Bucky tips his head back and laughs. It bounces around the small bathroom and fills her up, happiness spreading like molten lava through her veins.

"It  _definitely_  worked," he confirms. Wrapping the towel snugly around her, he sweeps her off her feet. Carrying her through the dark house and up the stairs, they sink together into the softness of her bed.

*****

Neither one wants to sleep. If they sleep, the night will pass and when the darkness leaves, so will he.

Instead, they lay tangled together on her bed. Even now, she still feels the aftershocks of pleasure shivering through her body, settling into her bones. Face to face, they lay sharing a pillow, silently watching each other in the dying light of the fire. She twines her fingers with his, brings them to her mouth and rubs her lips over the long, thin white scar on his right hand.

It was what brought them together, after all.

"I wish we could stay here like this," she murmurs, her wistful voice melting into the black silk of the room. "I wish the world would come back to its senses."

Bucky hooks his leg around hers and brings her even closer. The comforting curve of his warm body feels like a protective shield against the world beyond her windows.

"It can't last forever," he says and he strokes his fingers down her bare arm. There's an edge of bitterness riding his tongue when he speaks again. "It's gotta end someday. They'll run out of soldiers eventually."

All she's every wanted in this wretched world, was to find someone like him. Someone full of passion and life, someone who could make her feel again, make her want to  _live_  again. Here in this little village, she's found exactly what she needs, but their life is so fragile. She's terrified it will fall apart.

Sensing the swirl in her head, Bucky rests his thumb in the hollow dip at the base of her throat, rubbing small, soothing circles.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Of course you can." He doesn't respond right away. There's a longing in his face, one she recognizes - it's a perfect reflection of her own heart. She waits expectantly, but nothing happens. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he breathes. A deep red flush is working up his neck, spreading over the apples of his cheeks. He looks nervous. "I love you," he finally says.

"I love you too."

"Okay, good. Okay. I want to – would you do something for me?"

"Bucky, I'd do anything for you," she says encouragingly.

He nods at her words, absorbing them.  _She would do anything for him_. He takes a deep breath.

"Would you marry me?"

Since the moment she knew she loved him, she's dreamt of these words. Of Bucky asking her to stay with him forever. To wake up with him every morning and fall asleep wrapped in his arms. To fight and love and live and grow old together.

She wants to reply, but shocked hope steals her breath and the words won't come.

"I'm sorry," he whispers quickly, his eyes flicking rapidly between hers, sudden shyness in his voice. "I know we haven't known each other long, it's all mostly letters really, and I don't know, maybe it's too soon and we still have so much to learn about each other, but – you're it for me. I really believe that. It's just - every day I walk out there and I swear to god, death's riding my ass so fuckin'  _hard_ , and I don't know if I'm gonna make it home again and I just – didn't want to lose the chance."

His words bleed together, punched fast and frantic from his lungs, like he needs to release them or he'll choke. When he tries to keep speaking, she puts her fingers against his lips, shushing him.

"Bucky. You had my heart from the moment we met.  _You're it for me_ ," she echoes and Bucky's face lights up at her words. "I'll be here waiting, as long as it takes. Come back when you can and I'll marry you."

Burrowing into his chest, she clings to him. Tears slip fat and hot down her cheek and when he feels the steady stream wetting his skin, he rolls her onto her back and hovers above her, leaning down to kiss each one away, one by one until every drop is gone and the taste of salt burns his tongue.

Salt and sadness. Is there a more defining feature of war than these two things?

The dog tags around his neck clink softly when he shifts, sitting up on his knees. The words come effortlessly, the ones every soldier presents his love, knowing full well it could be no more than another pretty lie. He takes her hand and holds it against his heart. Beneath his hot skin, she feels the steady thump against her palm. His low voice rings with promise when he speaks.

"I swear to god, on everything I have,  _I will come back for you_." He squeezes her hand, his eyes burning. "What we have – I'm always gonna fight for it. Down to my dying breath. You and me, this kind of love, it lasts forever, okay? It'll never leave. I'll never leave. Not ever."

Out of nowhere, the nameless fear that sits dormant in her chest perks to life at his words. Terror seeps into the marrow of her bones, at the haunting phrase from her past.

But this is different, she thinks. It's  _different_ , and she holds tight to his vow, desperate to believe that history won't repeat, and she won't be left alone again.

"It never leaves," she echoes. Like opposing commas, they curl together, drawing comfort from the other.

*****

Just like before, Bucky rises before dawn. He dresses quickly, buttoning and buckling the uniform in the dark, a repetitious memory his hands have been trained to complete.

Just like before, he stokes the smoldering fire. Adds more kindling to send it blazing, filling the room with heat.

Just like before, he kneels beside the bed and lays his head next to her.

"Good morning," she whispers. Cool fingers smooth his hair back and he leans into her touch.

"Good morning," he breathes. She moves to get up, but Bucky gently holds her down. "No, don't get up. It's too cold."

She shakes her head no and tries to rise again, but his arm is like iron, a silent rebuke.

"Bucky, let me go downstairs. See if I can find you any coffee, I might..." her voice fades at the sadness in his eyes.

"Darlin, I'd really – I'd rather you don't watch me leave. I'm not sure I can go, if I know you're watching." He brushes his lips along her cheek and hums. "This here, you all soft and warm," he kisses her other cheek, his lips lingering, a smile in his voice, "completely naked," another kiss on her nose, his mouth a breath from hers. "This is what I want to remember."

In the firelight, his eyes are so breathtakingly blue. It's her favorite color, she sees it everywhere.

He could convince her to do anything with those eyes.

"If that's what you want," she murmurs reluctantly.

" _You're_  what I want. You're what I'm  _always_  gonna want," he whispers. His mouth slants over hers, the dry, cracked skin of his fingertips cradling her face and she leans into the rough touch.

"Good. Because I'm always going to be yours," she answers and Bucky swims happily in her reply.

Unwilling as ever, he rises slowly to his feet.

"When I come back, I'm bringing you a ring." A sweet, crooked smile pulls up his lips.

She plucks up the shiny medal he gave her from the chain around his neck, the outline of St. Michael clear on the spinning chain. "This is enough. I don't need anything else, just bring me you."

He watches her for a moment more, and then he's stumbling back for one last heated embrace. Crushing her into the blankets, Bucky pours every last drop of love into the kiss, trying desperately to brand himself into the meat of her heart, so she never, ever forgets him.

_It works_ , she thinks hazily, his mouth feverish against hers.  _Where he ends and where she begins, it's impossible to define._

He ends the kiss abruptly and tears himself away.

And just like before, at the grey break of dawn, Bucky Barnes slips from the warmth of home and disappears back into the cold march of war.

*****

Two months later, a telegram arrives from Captain Steve Rogers.

The innocent piece of paper sits on her kitchen table, resting against the chipped white jug that was once full of the bright holly berries Bucky brought her. Hours tick by as she sits in silence, waiting. Night has fallen, before numb fingers find the courage to open it.

_I lost him. A mission in the Alps. I'm not stopping until all of Hydra is dead. I'll come find you when this is over. I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry._

_G._

Steve Rogers never comes. She hears the news later, that his plane went down. No survivors.

*****

The poets say when your heart breaks, the world will grind to a halt.

_The poets are wrong_ , she thinks.

When your heart breaks, the world will in fact keep moving. The stars will still shine, the sun will still rise. You will go on living, despite having nothing to live for. The world doesn't stop for trivial things like grief. It lumbers on, drags you forward kicking and screaming, forcing you to keep breathing, until you're nothing more than a ghost of who you were.

*****


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That last chapter murdered my heart, I hope it destroyed all of you as well! This week, Bucky gets cockblocked and the mysterious circumstances that brought him back to her take a strange turn.

*****

**_MISSION REPORT_ **

_SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT ESTABLISHED. AWAITING RESULTS._

_He thinks to himself._

_What will he do when he sees the whites of her eyes?_

_He grinds his teeth, breathing hard through his nose._

_What will he do?_

*****

After he came back, Bucky's therapist encouraged him to ask questions. Anything and everything, the more the merrier. Nothing was off limits. At first, it felt strange, asking someone else to share the basic tenets of his life, but he grudgingly persevered. It was the only way he knew how to get the answers he needed.

The very first time they sat down, Bucky flipped his notepad open to reveal 27 pages, front to back, loaded with questions.

Some were simple.

_"What was my favorite color? How did I take my coffee? When did I have my first kiss? What was my favorite book? Who was my favorite ball player?"_

One after another, he fired the questions and Steve answered every single one, down to the most boring, insignificant detail. With every response, Bucky turned the words over in his head, testing them on his tongue and repeating them back. Committing them to memory so he could sketch out the simple outline of who he used to be.

Some here harder.

_"Why'd I get drafted instead of signing up for the war? Why didn't I get along with my father? Was I religious? Why not?"_

Those answers were thorny, not always nice and, but Steve replied with full and frank honesty, because there was no one else in the world knew Bucky Barnes as well as Steve Rogers.

It became a common sight, Bucky clutching the bright pink notepad Natasha gave him, carefully writing answers while Steve spoke; Steve was always willing to talk.

Now, he recalls one question where Steve stumbled a bit more than usual.

"Did I want to get married?"

An oddly devastated sadness had rearranged Steve's features, before he offered a vague answer.

"When we were younger, no. During the war, you changed your mind."

"Why'd I do that?"

"It happens."

"People usually have a reason. What happened?"

"War happened. And you know, stuff."

"Why are you being weird?"

"I'm not being weird, I'm just - look, you, um, you met - someone."

"Who -"

But before he could dig further, the conversation came to a screeching halt. Bells started ringing, lights flashing, an Irish voice coming through the ceiling as FRIDAY announced they were summoned for a mission. Snapping his mouth shut, Bucky tucked the notepad in the waistband of his jeans and leapt to his feet, the question forgotten.

Later, Steve tried to bring it up again, casually mentioning Bucky's girl and some letters she wrote to him, but by then it was too late. The mission had gone horribly wrong, and Bucky was exhausted and frustrated and close to tears, and he had no desire to remember someone else he'd let down.

Hurtled back to the present, Bucky sits up in the dim light of her bedroom and throws a knee across her hips, boxing her in beneath him. Palms anchored to the bed beside her head, he looks down at her face. Anxious fear flashes through her, something he can't reconcile. All he knows in this moment, is a desire to smooth it away.

"I don't - why didn't you say something sooner?" Bucky whispers. "Why - "

But he stops. He stops, because he knows why.

"Oh," he says softly, disappointment filling his throat. "No, okay. It's okay. I get it."

She watches him glance at the metal arm, his shoulders sagging as he tries to pull away. Her hands fly up, gripping his arms tight, keeping him in place.

"No. You listen to me Bucky Barnes - this was  _not_  about you or anything you think you've done." Bucky stares hard, clearly desperate to believe her. "I wanted to tell you, I just - couldn't hold you to a promise we made seventy years ago. We were different people then, I know that. You have a whole other  _life_ now. I don't expect anything, I don't - expect you to still want that."

The sharp ache that hits him whenever he sees her sadness tightens his chest. The words come easily, and he answers without a second thought.

Because really, he doesn't  _need_  to think. They're the most honest thing he knows.

"Darlin, you listen to  _me_  - I said it then, I'll say it again. This kind of love, it never leaves. I meant that. Even if I don't remember saying it, I  _know_  I meant it. I  _know_  I did."

Hope fills her eyes at his insistence, that fragile kind he could smash with a single word.

Which he never plans to do, as long as he lives.

"Really?" she whispers, brushing her knuckles over his fuzzy cheek and he turns, pressing his lips to them.

"Really," he says hoarsely.

Curling her fingers behind his neck, she pulls his mouth down and her kiss is soft and sweet and everything he's been missing his entire godforsaken  _life_. Bucky lets himself drown in her for a brief moment, before breaking the kiss.

"Jesus Christ," he swears, pulling back. "We were gonna get married and I just fuckin' left you. I  _left_  you. God dammit, I'm - fuck, I'm so fuckin'  _sorry_."

"Don't you dare apologize," she says immediately. "It wasn't your fault, Bucky. None of it was your fault."

Those magic words, he's heard them a million times, in a million variations, since the day he came back. They've always meant nothing, hollow assurances he actively scorned. He knew better. But now, lying here with her while the dim light of a fresh mountain morning begins to flood the room - he finally lets them soak in.

Maybe he even believes them.

"We were gonna get married," he says instead, wonder filling his voice. "You were gonna marry me."

"I was," she says, and her tentative smile is like the sun. "And you were going to marry me."

Bucky considers her for a moment before he surges forward. Nothing about the move is coordinated, it's a messy tangle of tongues and teeth clacking together, a kiss bubbling over with frantic need, as though the world is ending and this is the only way to prevent its demise.

His kiss is frantic and passionate and so utterly  _Bucky_ , she can barely breath. Everything he does to her, it kicks her heart into a crazy tailspin and she kisses him back ferociously, drinking up the tiny sounds he makes, the way his lips fit perfectly with hers. It’s enough for forever, the way he spills over so full of life and happiness and love.

And she knows, it's all for her.

When his hands squeeze her ribcage, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt, his lips move up to her ear with the question she’s been waiting for, and she  _shivers_.

"Can I?"

"Yes, please," she breathes, and Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, steadying himself.

Slipping his hands beneath her shirt, twin sighs of relief come at the feel of skin on skin. For the first time in decades, that feeling of absolute and total desire crackles through her and she arches into his touch. Sliding his right hand up, gently cupping her breast, he kisses her again and she moans into his lips when he thumbs over her nipple. His left hand hesitates on her belly, hard and cold, but then she grips his wrist firmly and tugs his hand up, placing it on her other breast and hooking her ankle behind his thigh.

Rocking himself against her, Bucky kisses every inch of skin he can find; that smooth space behind her ear, the delicate tendon down her neck, the sharp collarbone above her sleep shirt, his hands teasing relentlessly until she's breathing fast and hard, pushing herself back against him.

Swallowing his nerves, his fingers drift down. Finding the waistband of her shorts, circling the edge, working up the courage to dip his fingers inside, he takes a deep breath and -

His phone buzzes. Loudly.

" _Shit_ ," he rasps, jerking back. Reaching over to the bright screen flashing on the nightstand, his lust-addled brain fumbles repeatedly and he hits the ignore button three times before it goes silent. The spell is momentarily broken, the room quiet. Breathing hard, he gives her a crooked little grin and kisses the tip of her nose. "Sorry. Way to kill the mood, huh? Where were we?"

"Right here," she murmurs, pulling his face back to hers and slipping her tongue between his lips. Bucky melts into the touch, feels himself growing  _painfully_  hard against her, feels her fingers stroking down the hard planes of his stomach, sliding dangerously close to his -

His phone buzzes. Again.

"Mother _fucker_ ," he growls. Snatching it up, he flips the phone to silent again and throws it across the room for good measure. It lands with a soft thump in the corner and he dives back in for a kiss, feeling her shake with silent laughter.

The laughter turns to a breathless whine when he tugs up her shirt, his mouth finding the soft skin of her belly, sucking and kissing a path higher and higher, licking at the swell of her breast, so close, and  _god_  he wants to -

He wants to understand why life can't just go his fucking way for once, that's what he wants.

His phone buzzes.  _Again_.

"I'm gonna kill him," Bucky announces, sitting up on his knees. There's only one person who has the ability to bypass the silent mode he's put it on and he's gonna  _thoroughly_  enjoy strangling him next time he sees his stupid face.

Bouncing off the bed, he stomps over to the corner and picks up his phone, pressing the answer button so hard he's surprised the screen doesn't shatter.

" _What_ , Steve?" he snaps, frustrated desire turning his voice into a snarl. "What could you  _possibly_   _fucking need_  right now?"

"Morning sunshine. Sorry to bother, but we need to talk."

"I'm incredibly busy at the moment," Bucky grits out. Watching her snuggle deeper into the blankets, she gives him a lazy smile and he slams his eyes shut so he can focus. "I'll call you later."

He tries to hang up, but Steve's voice is calling out "Wait!"

Bucky vows then and there to steal Steve's shield when he gets back and brain him with it.

"Jesus Christ fuckin'  _fuck_. Hang on," he growls. Stamping down the irritation, he shoots her a look of exasperated apology. "Give me two minutes, okay?"

"It's okay. I'll go make coffee," she replies, crawling out of bed and Bucky feels the overwhelming desire to tackle her and make her to stay put. A whine of dissent slips out and she bites back a smile at his frustration. "Come downstairs when you're done, maybe we can finish this."

And then she  _winks_  and tiptoes out of the bedroom.

Bucky forces himself not to bolt after her. Instead, he irritably adjusts the situation between his legs and waits until she's out of earshot before flipping the screen to video. Steve's semi-apologetic face comes into view.

"This better be  _real_  fuckin' good," Bucky sighs.

"It's that signal, up at the Hydra base. It's gone off again."

Anger evaporating, Bucky's eyes narrow. "It's what?"

"It went off again," Steve repeats. "I thought you disabled it?"

"I did," Bucky says slowly. "You're sure?"

"Tony triple-checked it." His face morphs into serious Captain mode. "Real talk. Do I need to come out? Is it possible there's something else happening?"

Bucky thinks back, recalling the layers of dust, the cottony white spiderwebs, the echoes of ancient violence stuffed in that cavernous base. Once upon a time, it contained nightmares, sure. But there was nothing there now. He's sure.

"No, there was nothing there. I'm sure. Stay home."

Sky blue eyes scrutinize him through the small screen. "If you're sure."

"Positive."

"Fine." Steve pauses. "Anything else you want to talk about?"

"Nope," Bucky answers promptly.

"Sure?"

Exhaling a long-suffering sigh, Bucky gives him a pointed look. "Actually yes. You're a nosy little shit. Why is that?"

The stoic expression fades and Steve grins. "Probably 'cause I'm used to your dumbass needing my help all the fuckin' time."

Shooting him a mocking glare, Bucky shakes his head. "Fucking hell. What's the press gonna say when they hear Captain America has such a fuckin'  _potty_  mouth?"

"Expect they'll blame it on you. Just like my Ma did."

Bucky snorts. "Touché. I'll go check it out. Call you later. Dick."

Steve gives him a goofy, open-mouthed smile and a thumbs up. Bucky presses the end call button hard. Silence blankets the room, and he rubs the heel of his hand in his eye, pushing down a sudden wave of tiredness.

Someday, maybe, just  _maybe_  - he'll be done with this shit.

*****

Rifling through the tidy pile of his clothes folded in the corner of her closet, Bucky dresses quickly, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt, a vest, his white tac pants. Pulling his semi-clean, but still slightly bloody, white coat from a hanger, he shrugs into it. Looking into the mirror, he fingers the two bullet holes in the chest, twitching at the memory of them punching through his flesh.

Opening his backpack, he pulls out his cache of weapons. Chooses his favorite Glock, the old Sig Sauer, his second favorite Glock, his third favorite Glock, tucking them all into their appropriate holsters. Sheathing a couple knives comfortably in his boots, he ties his snarly hair back and fits the white balaclava over his head.

Standing in front of her mirror, he fixes his mouth into that trademark smirk that normally accompanies a mission outfit and tries to psyche himself up. Clear his mind. Sharpen his nerves.

It sort of works. Except that miserable slump of his shoulders - that refuses to change. Grimacing at the visual, he gives up.

Was he always this tired?

Steeling himself, he heads downstairs, clearing his throat and treading loudly to announce his presence. He doesn't want to scare the shit out of her, stomping around like the abominable snow monster with weapons coming out his ass.

Standing in the kitchen, she wears her silky cotton sleep shorts and a loose t-shirt. The sight of her pouring two steaming cups of coffee, while the sun begins to fill the cozy little cabin, is almost enough to break him. Say fuck it and tell Steve to come do it himself.

But of course, he won't. He never does. Because here comes Bucky Barnes. He always makes the shot. He always saves the day.

He sighs.

When she looks up, her budding smile instantly fades. She goes still, the only movement the tight clench of her jaw. She sets the coffee pot down with a quiet click.

"Before you ask," Bucky starts, "I'm not leaving. Steve called, I gotta go back up to the base. That fuckin' signal's going haywire again."

A spasm of alarm floods her face and she grips the edge of the counter. "Someone's there?"

"We don't think anyone's there," Bucky assures her. "There's nothing to indicate that, we think it's just the tech. Guess I didn't finish the job last time, so I need to go fix it."

Considering him for a fleeting moment, she bites her lip and thinks; appearing to make a decision she nods and walks toward him, heading for the stairs.

"I'll get dressed."

"No," Bucky says quickly, catching her arm. "You won't. It's nothing to worry about. I don't want you anywhere near that place. Please."

Squaring her shoulders, she tugs her arm gently from his nervous fingers and Bucky braces for an argument. But then she simply traces the bullet holes in his jacket, examining the torn edges of white fabric. Contemplating his comment. She meets his eyes and gives him a small smile.

"If it's nothing to worry about, then it doesn't matter if I come. Unless you're saying goodbye for good, I'm not letting you go alone. Is it goodbye for good?"

Even the thought of leaving her makes his breath catch.

"No," he breathes. "Never."

Reaching up, she tucks an errant strand of dark hair into the balaclava. Cradles his hot, scruffy cheeks in her cool palms, and kisses his lips.

"Then I'm coming with you."

Should he argue? Probably. Will he? Probably not. Because having someone love him like this - it just feels too nice.

"Okay," he concedes. "Get dressed."

*****

Any roads leading to the base have long since grown over. The only way up is an overgrown trail, accessed through a steep hike. Parking her old, now slightly blood-stained truck to edge of the path, they start to climb. Bucky takes it slow at first, until he realizes she's waiting patiently for him to go faster.

"Altitude sucks," he pants, pausing to put his hands on his head. "Think you might be in better shape than me."

"No," she replies, offering a hand to pull him up. "I'm definitely in better shape than you."

Barking out a surprised laugh, he squeezes her fingers.

Ninety minutes later, the entrance appears. Grey on grey, the door blends seamlessly into the mountain rock, it's curved handle set flush against the heavy metal. On his first visit, it was rusted shut, wind and weather and age an effective deterrent; it had taken him nearly an hour to bust through.

Before they enter, Bucky turns to her and unlatches his favorite Glock from the side holster.

"Guess I don't need to tell you how to use it, since you've already saved my ass," he watches her tuck her gloves into her coat and take the handle of the gun, double-checking the safety. The fluid gesture twists his gut. Looking up, she gives him a wane smile.

"No. All good."

It bothers him. Clearly, she knows how to protect herself - he wasn't there to do it, she had to learn - but he despises the fact that violence has touched her. That he's tainted her with it himself. He doesn't want that part of his life to be something they share.

Then and there, he makes himself a promise. If he gets a future with her, he'll do everything in his power to build her a life free from the sadness that seems so adamant to cling to her. Loving her that way, forever and always - it's the least he can do.

Pulling off the balaclava, he welcomes the bite of cold air against his sweat damp neck. Reaching into the depths of his white coat, he produces two small flashlights, handing one to her and clicking the other to life, and with a shouldered shove, he opens the door. It swings easily, clean and oiled from his last visit.

Holding the flashlight aloft, he balances his gun on his wrist, rolls his shoulders and starts forward, eyes cautiously sweeping the entrance, as she steps carefully behind.

The hallway twists and turns, snaking deep into the bedrock of the mountain. The air warms as they walk, the depth of the mountain keeping the cold from penetrating; the dampness in the air increases though, negating any warming effects and cutting deep.

Damp cold was the worst kind. It always soaked into his bones. Held tight, refused to leave.

Heavy iron doors hang from broken hinges along the walls, frozen in place through a potent combination of old age and powdery red rust. Bucky's already rummaged through the small rooms lining the hall, turning up nothing more than a handful of paperclips and a couple broken rifles; as he runs his light up and down the doors, the rooms reveal nothing new.

_A good thing_ , he thinks.  _A very good thing_.

Their flashlights illuminate the narrow hall, the enclosed space muffling their footsteps. On and on they plod, until the click of Bucky's boot makes a new sound, echoing up into the soaring ceiling of a new chamber. They've reached the control room now, and there it is.

In the blackness of the cavernous room, he sees a blinking red light.

What the fucking  _hell_?

He starts toward it, super soldier eyes navigating through the darkness. Just before he reaches the light, a startled hum of electricity crackles around them, a generator bursting to life. Whirling around, finger hovering over the trigger, he finds her standing by the wall, her hand wrapped around the t-shaped handle of a giant light switch.

"Jesus fuck," he mutters, using his shoulder to wipe away the bead of sweat trickling down his temple. "Scared the shit out of me."

Above the switch, he notices a water-stained Hydra propaganda poster depicting a faded red skull, tentacles reaching into a black pit of writhing, silhouetted bodies. Christ. He remembers those posters. They were tacked up around the bases back in the early 1950s. Some lousy intern's job, he supposes. Hydra marketing for a summer job.

Assholes.

"We can't all see in the dark," she reminds him patiently, brushing the dust from her hands.

"Fair enough," he says weakly, heart still pounding.

In the dingy light, the control dashboard looks as dirty and untouched as his last visit, coated in a thick layer of filth that only exists with decades of neglect. But in the right-hand corner, the red light blinks steadily.

Bucky's perturbed. Is he missing something? Is there something else going on?

Right there, the first flash of fear prickles up his neck, lodging sharp claws into his skin.

Scanning the dashboard, he sees the breakers he flipped before, cutting power to the control center. All of them are still clearly locked in the OFF position, so he breathes a sigh of relief - just like the light switch she found, there must be some kind of secondary power source.

He debates the complex panel, searches the buttons and keys and slides and comes up empty. Unless Hydra gave him explicitly detailed instructions, he was never good with tech shit like this. What's he supposed to do? Dismantle the entire dashboard? Search for a general power source?

In the end, he chooses a slightly different route.

"Cover your ears."

She looks warily at him, her hands slowly rising to her head.

"Here goes," Bucky mumbles to himself and with a swing, he smashes a metal fist straight through the dashboard. The sound explodes through the room, pieces of grey plastic and black metal and glass bulbs ricocheting off the wall. Jerking his hand back, he comes up with a fistful of electrical wires and the blinking red light goes dark.

"Problem solved," he turns to her, the wires dangling like a handful of snakes.

The sound of his blunt dismantling still reverberates through the room, and she stands tense and frozen.

"What else was here?" her voice is low. Unlike Bucky, she seems afraid to make much noise.

"Not much," Bucky admits, tossing the wires aside. "Searched it last time, nothing useful. Looks like it was abandoned sometime in the '50s." He motions back to the far wall with the gun. "There's a small office over there, we can have a look around if you want."

There's no reason for it, but something about the place puts her off kilter. Following Bucky's direction, she moves toward the office, unsure what she expects to find, but inside is exactly what he said - nothing. A small desk and file cabinet on one side, a pair of broken metal folding chairs against a brick wall, a pile of crumpled papers on the desk.

"Went through it all," Bucky confirms, leaning against the door frame and crossing his arms. "Desk was empty, file cabinet had a few papers, looks like office inventory. Doesn't seem like they left anything behind."

She hums in agreement, peeking into the file cabinets and finding nothing but more dust and the moldering remains of a dead mouse. She turns in a slow circle, eyes tracing the angles of the small room, and she finds nothing. Breathes easier.

Although - _wait._

Stepping closer to the wall behind the desk, she runs her fingers lightly across the brick, touching here and there. Bucky watches intently, the way her hands move in random patterns. Several minutes pass in absolute silence, until suddenly she stops. Pressing against a single brick, she wiggles it, crumbling white mortar shaking loose to the floor, and then the brick pulls free.

Behind is a deep, hollow space.

"What - " Bucky says, coming closer. "How? How did you know?"

There's an emptiness in her face when she looks at him. "I've been hiding things in floorboards and fireplaces and - walls, most of my life." Her voice sounds infinitely tired, like the years have finally caught up. "I know what to look for."

Bucky shines a flashlight into the dark space and they see a fat bundle of paper. Reaching in, she tugs gently, the rough brick unwilling to reveal its secret so easily. When it finally pops free, they find a folded envelope. Brushing away the layers of dust, the faded scrawl of cursive handwriting is splashed carelessly across the front, with two words:

_VERSION 2_.

Wordlessly, she looks at him and Bucky shakes his head in bewilderment.

"I don't know," he confesses. "I don't know what it means."

She runs her fingers beneath the envelope flap to pull it open, but Bucky stops her, glancing over his shoulder.

"What?" she asks, immediately on alert. "Did you hear something?"

"No, but can we wait until we get home? I just - don't want you here any longer." He says the words without thinking and flinches.  _When we get home_?  _You idiot_ , y _ou'll scare her off with that shit. It's not your home, it's hers._

But while Bucky frets over his word choice, he notices something. That look of exhaustion and sadness filling her eyes - it disappears. Like a weight's been lifted from her shoulders. She reaches for his hand, tangling her fingers with his and tugging him close. Tucking herself against him, she hugs him tight and Bucky holds on fiercely.

"Okay," she agrees softly. "Let's go home."

And just like that, Bucky Barnes has a home.

Dropping a kiss to her forehead, he squeezes her hand and they walk toward the door, ready to leave this depressing world behind.

His brain is already plowing ahead, remembering warm blankets and the smell of hot soup and the sound of a crackling fire, all things he now associates with her, associates with  _happiness_. His brain and his heart want it so damn badly, he nearly misses it.

Just before they pass through the door, a strange gust of air, ice cold and smelling of snow.

He stops so fast, she bumps into him. With a sinking feeling in his chest, he turns to the blank wall, eyes roaming over the faded brick.

"Did you feel that?" He glances over his shoulder. Her mouth is turned down and she rubs her nose when it smacked his shoulder.

"Yes," she says tightly.

Stepping closer, Bucky runs his hands over the brick, searching for the source. Bending down, he freezes, seeing something new, something he knows wasn't there before. He recognizes it instantly, an unfortunate currency he dealt for decades.

Blood speckled across the brick. A small piece of human skin embedded in the mortar. Dried, but no more than a few weeks old.

Someone  _was_  here.

"God  _dammit_ ," he hisses, jumping to his feet. "Fucking fuck!"

She kneels beside the wall, absorbing the gruesome details. "That's new?" she asks, swallowing hard.

"Yes," he says shortly.

She looks around the office, back in the control room. Remembers Bucky describing the welded shut door at the entrance. "You said the entrance was sealed shut when you first arrived. Could this be the same person? How would they get inside in the first place?"

The icy whistle of wind hits his face again. Leaning into the wall, he pushes, testing a few different points. "Please don't be a secret door," he mutters under his breath, but with a sudden grating rumble, it slides back.

Revealing a secret door. He  _hates_  secret doors.

Stark would love this.

A long, dark tunnel appears. Tapping anxiously against his leg, he debates - he doesn't want her to follow, but he's sure as hell not leaving her alone. He turns around, but she settles it instantly.

"Just go. I'm coming with you."

Propping the flashlight on his wrist again, Bucky clicks it on and positions the gun. Starting forward, he hunches over, bending to fit his tall frame beneath the low ceiling. For ten minutes they walk, encountering nothing more than ice slicked walls and a hard-packed dirt floor. Finally, the darkness begins to fade, a dim grey light crawling into the spaces around them. Turning a sharp corner, they find the source.

A large metal door sits askew, propped open and allowing slivers of light and cold air to filter through. Coming closer, Bucky discovers the door hinges are unscrewed, a little pile of broken metal and stripped screws littering the ground.

Wrapping a metal hand around the edge of the door, he looks back to her. "Be ready," he murmurs, nodding to the gun. She raises it, her hands steady and returns his nod. With a rough jerk, Bucky pulls the door fully open, the grate of rust and metal screeching around them.

On the other side, they find a thin fissure in the grey rock of the mountain. Protected from the drifts of snow outside, wide enough for someone to fit through - but hidden well enough that no one would ever think twice.

And there, lying next to the door, is a black wool glove. Threadbare, with an unraveled hole in the thumb, it looks perfectly clean. Clearly a recent addition. Bucky picks it up, that sinking feeling in his chest now bubbling like acid in his throat. He shoves the glove furiously in his pocket.

"You  _fuckers_ ," he growls to himself. Turning around, he meets her wide-eyed gaze, panic clear in her face. She still has the gun raised, but now he sees the hint of a tremble in her fingers.

He'd give his entire life to erase that look.

"Hey, come here," he murmurs, and she steps quickly into his embrace and once more, he holds tight. Holding her this close, he smells the faint, calming scent of her lotion. "Let's go home. I need to make a call."

*****

"Anything?"

Once again, Steve Rogers is eating giant globs of peanut butter straight from the jar. Wasting no time, Bucky gets straight to the point.

"Someone was there. Found a back entrance they must've used. Assume they turned on the signal."

Steve swears and the spoon clatters to the kitchen counter.

"Who was it?"

"I don't know," Bucky snaps.

"What the fuck did they want?"

"I don't know."

"No possible scenarios?"

"I don't know," Bucky grits out, pissed with Steve's exasperated sigh. "I'm fuckin' working on it. Give me a minute to think."

Steve rubs his forehead. The expression on his face morphs, an odd mix of frustration and enforced calm, with a sprinkle of suspicion.

"The other reason you're there," he asks carefully. "The reason you've stayed. Whatever that is, could it have anything to do with this?"

Bucky opens his mouth to refute that possibility, because fuck you Steve, of course not - but then he pulls up short. That's the thing. He  _doesn't_  know. She still hasn't told him her ability and why it ever allowed her to know the scope of Hydra's brutality. This is one big piece of the puzzle that remains hidden.

"I don't know," he admits. Looking out of the bedroom, his gaze grows thoughtful. "But I'll find out."

*****

Downstairs in the cozy little cabin, she opens the dusty envelope.

Inside, she finds 14 photographs. They're old, a sepia toned mix from the 1940s and 1950s, their occupants slightly blurry and peeling around the edges. On her kitchen counter, she lines them up in two straight rows.

She stares.

She begins to shake.

"Darlin, can we talk about something?"

Bucky's voice is low and soothing, meant for comfort. Walking up beside her, he peers curiously at her profile. Slowly she turns, and the look on her face cuts him to the bone.

"Bucky - "

Cold sweat fills the palms of her hands where they lay flat on the counter and a shudder ripples through her, rattling her entire body. He moves quickly behind her, pressing himself against her back, wrapping his arms around her, surrounding her in that blessed heat.

"Hey, hey, what is it?"

Over her shoulder, he sees the images.

There are two group photos, each showing four men posing. Three of the men are dressed in white lab coats, horn-rimmed coke bottle glasses perched on their noses. The fourth stands a head above them, dressed head to toe in black, his white-blond hair gleaming even in the faded photo. Bucky's lip curls in disgust - an SS officer, from the looks.

Until he looks closer. Something about the man's arrogant sneer and icy stare sparks a long-forgotten memory. Bucky squints.

"Hang on. I think I remember him," he says slowly. "He was there my first few years, but then he disappeared. Deserted, they said."

"Deserted," she repeats. She gives a hollow laugh. "I doubt that."

Bucky should interrogate that comment, but he sets it aside for a moment. Returning to the pictures, he looks at the second row. The images are consistent, six full body images of a naked male, each accompanied by a close-up headshot - twelve photos in total. A small postcard is clipped to each pair of photos, block print letters with details.

This is familiar. Not the men themselves, but the visual and the information. Familiar, because long ago, the former Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes started with a file just like this.

Name. Country. Rank. Skills.

In the beginning, he supposes his was just as simple and basic. Until the graciousness of cryofreeze carried him through the decades, turning his paper-thin file fat with Hydra accomplishments. Assassination, murder, torture. All those details that made up the shadowy outline of the Winter Soldier.

Suddenly, he gets it.

_Version 2._

Bucky knows that while he may have been the first  _successful_  super soldier Hydra created, he was by no means the only experiment. Proof of that assumption is lined up on the table before him. Soldiers and special skills categorized alphabetically in what he realizes is evidence of Hydra's original super soldier trials.

The information is massive. He needs to call Steve, but there are shallow, panicked gasps bleeding from her throat, and he refuses to set that aside, because  _she_  is his priority - he turns her firmly to face him.

"Look at me. Darlin', look at me. What is it?"

Wild eyes search his, so full of despair. Sweat slick fingers point to a pair of photos, depicting a tall, thin boy with curly black hair and vacant eyes.

Bucky looks closer and sees the information listed on the card.

 

> _NAME: Lewis, Henry._
> 
> _COUNTRY: United Kingdom._
> 
> _RANK: Lieutenant._
> 
> _SKILLS: Espionage. Technology._

 

"I know him," her voice cracks. She pauses and corrects herself. "I mean, I  _knew_  him."

More than anything, he wants to ask about her past. Who she was before she found him broken and bleeding that day in her village. What she went through all those years ago that shaped her into the wary person she became. What secret she carries that weighs so heavily on her soul.

But he promised he wouldn't. He knows the pain of having other people digging into his past, what it feels like to feel like to reveal your darkest secrets. He knows he needs to tread lightly.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asks carefully.

"No," she whispers, staring down at her hands. "But I need to."

He takes her chilly fingers in his and rubs, quick friction warming them.

"Okay," he encourages. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You can tell me anything."

She stares at their entwined hands, curls her finger tight around his silver thumb.

"I don't think you'll like me very much. When you know."

Bucky feels a hysterical desire to laugh. Not like her? Absurd. How could he not love her? Smiling wryly, he brings their hands up and leaves a kiss on her knuckles.

"Between the two of us, my track record will always be worse. There's nothing you can say that'll change my mind, so don't worry about that. Just tell me."

Gathering her courage, she looks up to meet soft blue eyes.

And she talks.

"When I was 12-years-old, a group of men came to my home. The - blond man. He was looking for me. They arrested my Father and I ran. As far from Berlin as I could get." Closing her eyes, the memory of that black night burns fresh. "I made it to the coast and bought the first ticket out of Germany I found. In March of 1929, I got to London."

Bucky imagines her as a little girl, alone, penniless, mourning her father and hiding from an unknown horror. It makes him want to raze the world for her.

"That was brave. You were really brave," he tells her, still rubbing her skin, but she shakes her head.

"That's where I met him."

*****


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we learn more about the Reader. Hydra sucks so hard and love has so many different forms. This chapter also features a cameo from the greatest woman in the MCU and this is my first time writing her.

**_Late June - December, 1942  
_ ** **_London, England_ **

Night time in the hospital is peaceful.

Every bed is taken, housing occupants with injuries ranging from broken bones to missing limbs. During the day, a steady stream of chatter and cries of pain will fill every nook and cranny of the sterile hospital, but at night, silence reigns.

Beside a small metal table, she dumps out a basket full of clean clothes. Picking each individual strip, she stretches out the wrinkles, smooths them down, folds it in half, and rolls it into a tight ball. Each bundle goes carefully into the empty basket. Her fingers find a rhythm and the basket begins to fill.

Stretch. Smooth. Fold. Roll.

Out in the rows of sleeping soldiers, the occasional squeak of a bed spring pings as a patient shifts, trying to get comfortable. There’s a disgruntled sigh of failure and the place grows quiet again.

On and on she works, until she hears it.

From the rows of broken men, comes a whimper. The sound of a child holding back tears. It is so  _lost_ , it cuts to the bone.

She knows that sound.

Slipping back into the ward, she walks silently through the rows of beds, passing men with shattered limbs, men drowning in plaster casts, men who’s faces have been scorched away. There in the corner, she finds him. Locked in sleep, his head thrashes back and forth, terrified whimpers pushing past his lips. Bending over him, she sees tear tracks streaking down his cheeks, a sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead.

Tugging a clean cloth from the starched pocket of her pale blue dress, she runs it down his face, wiping away sweat and tears. Still, he makes those hurt noises, and she hears the words “no, please, no, sorry, sorry, sorry,” in a panicked whisper.

Out of habit, she glances over her shoulder, but no matter. She is alone with nothing but the soldiers and their nightmares for company.

As she’s done so many times before, she can help.

So, she does.

Placing perpetually cold hands on his face, she hums softly, hushing him. The broken whispers stop, but fat tears still leak from his closed eyes. Closing her eyes, she concentrates on what she finds, feeling the strangeness of warmth tickling her palms, no more than a mere second -

Instantly, the tears stop. Still fast asleep, the man sniffles and those hard lines carved into his face relax. In sleep, he looks so young, and really - isn’t he? No more than eighteen. Cursed to live in a time when men his age are dying in bunkers and battlefields.

Navigating around the clean white beds, she goes back to work.

The tragedy, is that those dark memories will haunt him all his life, but at least tonight, thanks to her, he finds solace in a dreamless sleep.

Sometimes these small acts of mercy, they are enough.

*****

Late one night, she sits at the front desk filing patient reports. Absorbed in the task, she doesn’t hear the man approach until he clears his throat.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Looking up, she sees a tall, lanky soldier. Curly black hair frames a broad forehead and deep brown eyes. Dressed in a crisp military uniform, she sees the Lieutenant insignia on his shoulder. Clutched in his right hand, is a knobby cane, and with his left, he doffs his hat and tucks it under his arm.

“I’m sorry to startle you.” His accent holds a hint of east London. “I’m here to retrieve yesterday’s patient files. Would you know where I might find them?”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” she says. Rising to her feet, she smooths the front of her dress and steps to the file cabinet.

At her words, she sees him touch the gold pin at his shoulder nervously. Leaning the polished wooden cane against the table, he tries to stand up straighter.

“Not much of a Lieutenant these days,” he says wryly.

“An injury doesn’t change that,” she states. Locating the file, she hands it over.

“Perhaps,” he agrees. “Pardon my poor manners. My name’s Henry Lewis.”

When he offers his hand, he gives her a shy smile and she accepts it. It feels warm, but then again doesn’t everything feel warm to her?

*****

The next night, she recognizes the sound. Hears the click-tap of a cane, and the gentle shuffle of a slow gait. The door opens, and Henry steps through. He sweeps his hat from his head and tucks it neatly under his arm.

“Good evening,” he says.

“Hello Lieutenant,” she replies.

A routine is born.

Each night he stops by the hospital, collecting files to return back to his office. Each night they exchange a few words before he tips his hat and ambles slowly away. She finds herself looking forward to his visits, discovering she likes having someone know her, as friends are a luxury she often foregoes.

It is much easier to hide the past when there is no one to ask.

*****

After a month of conversation, brimming with awkward stops and starts, Henry asks her to dinner.

They find a cafe with a table by the front window. Over watery lagers and small bowls of salted potatoes, they talk. She learns he grew up poor on the east side of London; when war was declared, he signed up the same day. Rising quickly through the ranks, he was a clever soldier in the field, until an unexpected bomb drove a chunk of rusty shrapnel through his knee in Belgium. Several surgeries later, the doctors declared it the best they could do.

Now, he walks with a heavy limp. Working in one of the Westminster war departments, he’s resigned himself to a stationary life.

Sitting across from her, his fingers draw patterns in the condensation of his pint glass. He speaks wistfully of war. Of being part of a team. Doing good in the world, fighting for what’s right. It kills him, sitting here while his friends are still out there.

“After all,” he says sadly. “Who needs another broken soldier?”

Shaking her head, she reaches for his hand and squeezes tight. His dark eyes light up at her touch.

“The world always needs good men,” she says.

“Tell me about you,” he answers instead.

She speaks of her life in London, of her work in the hospital. But those details of her past, her father, Berlin, her ability - she reveals nothing, offering only the black and white sketch of her life. There is no color she wants to provide.

Because, well. Being different is hard.

*****

The months are filled with a low simmering courtship. A drink in the pub after work, the occasional picnic in the park, dinner at the few restaurants still open in the midst of war.

Henry is an easy man to like. Gentle and unassuming, he has dimples in both cheeks that follow his shy smiles. When he gets excited, he talks with his hands and he stutters just a bit, and she finds herself charmed.

One night, he walks her home and quietly asks if he can kiss her goodnight. She hesitates for only a moment before saying yes, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses warm lips to hers.

It feels nice, this closeness. She basks in it.

Time drifts along, and there, surrounded by the frantic pace of war-torn London, they fall in love.

There is no earth-shattering event, no wild racing of the heart; it’s not that kind of love. Sometimes love comes barreling in, fierce and wild and full of fire, but other times it arrives slowly and without fanfare. It may not be what she expected, but love is love and she accepts it.

Having someone feels so nice.

*****

**_December 1942  
_ ** **_London, England_ **

Rain has been falling steadily for the past three days.

Inside the cafe, the radiator works over-time and the hot air coats the windows in a thick fog. At their customary table, she waits for him, cold fingers curled around a cup of tea. Milk is hard to find these days, so she drinks it black, stirring absently to cool the scalding liquid.

When they were walking home last night, Henry asked her a question.

“I’d like to marry you. If you would have me.”

Perhaps she’s been naive, but it took her by surprise.

Growing up, she remembers her father spinning a world of fairy tales, about a beautiful princess and a handsome prince, so in love they could overcome all odds. That was the love he knew, the love he had for her mother. It was what she hoped to find when she grew up, that wild, soul consuming love. The kind that could move mountains and bring you to your knees. The kind that always gives more than it takes.

The kind of love that never leaves, no matter what happens.

That was then. In this world, she long ago abandoned those sweet dreams; the nightmares of the present and the horrors of her past make everything so bleak.

But with his question, Henry’s given her hope. She knows that while she may never have the powerful love her parents shared, she can still have this. A gentle life filled with contentment.

So, she said yes.

Maybe it’s not true love, but it’s a deep affection all the same.

Maybe that’s enough.

After two hours of waiting in the bustling cafe, she decides to go home. Henry’s been buried at work and likely lost track of time. Shrugging into her coat, she drops a few coins on the table and waves to the woman behind the counter. Stepping into the crisp December night, she glances down the empty street, fiddling with the clasp on her purse.

A black car turns the corner and she squints at the dim headlights.

“Waiting for someone miss? May I keep you company?”

The voice at her shoulder is polite, but something makes her flinch. Goosebumps prickle up the back of her neck, biting into her skin and she forces a tight smile as she looks up, intending to brush the man away.

“No thank you, I’m - ”

Recognition comes like a fist to the face.

His brown hat is pulled low, but a tuft of white blond hair peaks beneath the brim. Time has carved tiny lines beside his pale eyes, but the cruel curve of his mouth is shockingly familiar.

Tonight, she sees it all up close, instead of from a hidden spot inside the wall of her living room.

A vicious smile curls his lips. Darting his hand out, he catches her wrist in an iron grip and she sucks in a breath as he leans close, his breath hot and sour, smelling faintly of whiskey.

“Hello little girl. I said I’d find you.”

The black car rumbles to a stop. Panicked, she opens her mouth to scream, but her deep breath does nothing more than inhale the fumes wafting from the damp cloth he suddenly shoves against her face. Speckles of black dance across her vision and she feels herself thrown into the backseat.

The door slams shut with a sickening finality.

The world tilts and goes black.

*****

**_December 1942  
Location Unknown_ **

The bare cement walls are slick beneath her palm. She presses her hand against it, feeling the rough grit of crumbling mortar; it has a vaguely tomb-like smell and she can’t stop shivering.

Rolling over, she pulls the flimsy wool blanket tighter, keeping her eyes locked on the door.

_Where is she?_

Her head aches and her mouth feels cottony dry, a lingering taste of the drug they used.  _Dammit_. All those years of being cautious, of keeping her eyes open, and this is how it happens.

With a harsh, whining screech, the door bangs open.

Sitting up quickly, she recoils from the throbbing ache behind her eyes. Yellow light spills into her cell, before a bulky silhouette fills the frame. Dressed head-to-toe in black, from the tips of his boots to the thick black gloves to the high-necked collar of his shirt, every bare inch of skin is covered.

“Stand up,” he orders brusquely, “back against the wall. Hands out front.”

Defiance fills her, but exhaustion follows just as swift. Climbing painfully to her feet, she leans back against the cold stone and extends her arms. There’s a clank of metal and heavy shackles clasp her wrists, binding her hands together. Lifting her hands above her head, he presses himself flush against her, pinning her to the wall. She turns away and his mouth is hot and wet against her ear.

“You’re nothing but a fucking freak,” he sneers. “If you try to touch me, I’ll shoot you in the face.”

With that threat, he jerks her from the wall and shoves her into the bright hallway. Leading her down a narrow corridor, they pass by an open room where there’s a brief glimpse of shiny metal, and then she’s climbing a winding staircase. Up and up she goes, circling until she’s dizzy.

Finally, a wood door with a brass knocker appears. Three hard knocks and he shoves it open.

The room is small, with one wall made entirely of glass. It looks down upon a bustling laboratory filled with doctors in white coats, and through the window, she sees in full the glimpse of metal she passed moments ago.

It looks like a chair. Attached to the back, is a rudimentary hook, holding the thick metal halo hanging above; wide leather straps are affixed to the arms and legs, their silver buckles gleaming, while two round spotlights shine down, illuminating the entire contraption.

Even from behind the thick glass, the device pulses with a sinister aura. The chair emanates torture, destruction.

Death.

Seated at the table, is the man who grabbed her. Sipping coffee from a delicate china cup, he looks up at her entrance and bestows a congenial smile.

“Hello. Thank you for joining me.”

Shoved unceremoniously into a chair, the guard who brought her departs without a word. Still smiling, the man leans back, folding his hands over his stomach.

“You have questions, I expect.”

Looking around the room, she waits a full minute before she responds with the only thing she can think, her voice still husky from the drugs.

“Who the hell are you?”

At the question, a spasm of anger flits over his face. “My name is Colonel Wilhelm Richter. Someone you should have met a long time ago.”

“I don’t associate with Nazis,” she spits out.

“Oh, come now,” he chuckles. “Nazis? No.” Fingering the pin on his lapel, he unhooks it and sets it on the table. She sees it clearly now, the silver skull with eight protruding tentacles. “Hitler and his thugs are welcome to whatever they want, but  _Hydra_  are interested in more.”

“Hydra,” she says slowly and the name tastes like acid on her tongue. “And what do  _Hydra_  want?”

“The best for everyone,” he breathes. “Order and control. In the future, these wars will be unnecessary. We simply need people to follow our path, it’s so easy. But to get there, we need soldiers. That’s why we’re here,” he gestures to lab below. “Creating a new breed of super soldier. Strong and obedient. A fist to destroy what we command.”

Considering his words, she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood.

She knows what’s coming.

“Why am I here?”

Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the table.

“Years ago, I knew a young woman. Beautiful. Indescribably talented. When I discovered what she could do, I wanted her. More than anything. Hydra was just starting, we could have had such a bright future together, but no,” he sneers, lip curling in disgust. “Instead, she ran off and married some worthless piece of trash, and a few years later, she went and had  _you_. I knew you’d be just like her. Able to wipe a man’s brain clean with the touch of your fingers.”

_Piece of trash_. The words send her blind with rage.

She thinks of her handsome father, his dark eyes sparkling as he watched her mother shuffling a deck of cards. It was late at night and they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, trading warm smiles and sweet words. They never knew she was hiding behind the armchair in the living room, hugging her baby blanket, a sleepy smile on her face as she listened to the sounds of love. It was one of the last nights they had, before a fever stole her mother like a thief in the night.

If she could summon up the saliva, she’d spit in Richter’s face.

“Don’t you  _ever_  talk about my father that way,” she snarls. Her fingers flex rapidly in the shackles and he watches her fury with amusement.

“I’ll say any god damn thing I want. He took her and then hid you from me for years. He was a thorn in my side until the day I killed him,” he says, and a fervent gleam lights up his eyes. “That night I came, you did it to him, didn’t you? Wiped him?”

All these years, and the wound is still fresh.

A dark November night. The smell of snow in the air and a dark apartment. The touch of childish hands on a gray stubbled face. Removing every last memory from her father’s head. Knowing he would go to his grave without remembering he had a daughter he loved beyond anything in the world.

“Yes,” she says through clenched teeth.

“You know,” Richter says confidentially, “he was so confused at the end. Had no idea why we took him. Every time we sliced off a finger he just  _screamed_. I finally figured it out though, knew you’d taken it all and we weren’t getting a fucking thing from him. Should’ve just killed him straight away, but I was angry.”

Testing the restraints, she glares at him. “He asked me to do it and I did. But I don’t do that now. Not anymore.”

“That’s where we disagree,” he replies. “Because you certainly will do it again. For as long as I require.”

Laughing hollowly, she slumps in her chair. “There’s no way I’ll  _ever_  help you.”

“I thought you might say that.” Rising elegantly, he walks over and pulls her to her feet. “I’ve brought motivation. Let’s have a look.”

Dragging her to the large glass window, they look down at the lab. Richter pushes a red button on the wall and speaks.

“Soldier Lewis, please.”

A door bangs open and two guards march forward, a tall, dark haired man between them. At the sight, her knees buckle.

“No,” she whispers. “Oh my god,  _no_.”

“You will notice we fixed him,” Richter says clinically. “With just a few experiments, we solved what his previous doctors were unable to fix.”

She sees the truth in his words. Henry walks confidently, his limp disappeared. He seems taller now, broader even. Something about him is different.

“What did you do to him?” she chokes out.

“Nothing he did not request. He wanted to serve again, and we gave him the opportunity. We need a perfect soldier, and he is a prime test subject. Natural talent on the battlefield, eager to please. Exactly what we need. There’s just one small problem.”

When Henry sees the chair, he stops short.

“Jesus, no. Please, no. I can’t do it again, please!”

Even through the plate glass window, she hears the fear in his voice. The guards ignore his plea and motion toward the chair. Henry shakes his head vehemently, trying to back away.

“They all resist the chair,” Richter sighs.

Backpedaling now, Henry bumps into two more guards, who grip his arms and drag him forward. He struggles briefly, before sagging in their hands and letting himself be manhandled into the chair. Reluctantly opening his mouth, a gag is thrust between his teeth.

“What is this?” she demands. Her fingers are splayed on the glass, as though she can touch through the window.

“It’s called a memory suppression machine. Our first prototype. Electric currents are used to scrub their minds.” The whirring hum of electricity begins and the halo above the chair twitches to life. “Unfortunately, the effects don’t seem to last. The machine destroys the memories for a brief time, but they reappear.”

The halo rotates and lowers over Henry’s face, locking in place. It makes a loud, vibrating noise and then, with every bit of breath in his lungs, Henry begins to  _scream_. On and on, the bloodcurdling screeches fill the room, heartbreaking sounds of unimaginable pain.

“Stop!” she screams, beating her fists against the window. “You’re going to kill him! Stop it! Please,  _please_  stop!”

“As you can see,” Richter says dispassionately, speaking over her screams, “it appears slightly painful.”

With a final lurch, the machine goes silent and Henry’s screams fade away. When the halo lifts, he remains in the chair, shivering uncontrollably. The guards unbuckle the straps and haul him to his feet. Blank and docile, he appears to wait for instruction. It takes nothing more than a sharp request from the guard, for him to spin on his heel and march through the door from where he came.

Panting in the observation room above, she feels sweat dripping down her temple.

“Why are you doing this?” her voice breaks on the last word and she swipes tears from her eyes.

Richter retreats to the table, shuffling a thick stack of paper and tapping the edges even.

“Our research began years ago, that’s why I wanted you then. Our newest trial is starting now.”

“And what the  _hell_  does this have to do with me?”

“You know what I want. We’ll continue using the chair on our soldiers until we get it right. Or - you can make it easier. Painless for them. It doesn’t have to be like this. Make the right choice to help them. It’s selfish to say no.”

Closing her eyes, she gives the glass a weak smack.

“You don’t understand. What I do - people  _don’t come back from it_. Whatever I take, the memories are gone.  _Forever_.”

Tilting his head, he observes her with a curious smile.

“I know.”

“No,” she says softly. “I won’t. I won’t do that to people against their will.”

“Haven’t you been doing that exact thing to those poor souls in the hospital?” he says. “Didn’t you take things from them?”

“That was different,” she argues, tears now spilling over. “I was  _helping_  them. I only took the bad things, I  _always_  left behind what made them who they were.”

“And now you’ll take more. It really is simple.”

“I won’t.” Finally finding that saliva, she spits at his feet. Raising a lazy eyebrow, he looks down at his shoes. When he speaks, his voice is bitterly cold.

“So then - our little game begins.”

*****

Every morning he comes for her. Drags her into the observation deck and forces her to watch while they put a parade of men through the memory suppressing machine.

It spins and sparks and fires bolts of electricity through screaming, writhing bodies. Sometimes they go into convulsions. Sometimes blood streams from their eyes. Sometimes they foam at the mouth. 

Every evening, she tells him no.

Every night, she stuffs her fist in her mouth to muffle her sobs, the screams of the tortured soldiers running on a loop through her brain.

And the next morning, it begins again.

*****

On and on it goes.

Until finally, it happens.

Until finally, she says yes.

*****

One morning, he drags her into the room. They open the door and there’s Henry again, his dark eyes rolling in panic. The moment he sees the chair, he begins to cry.

“Please,” he sobs and his voice breaks. “Please  _stop_.”

The crack in his voice reminds her of the soldiers in her hospital, whimpering as the darkness closed in and the nightmares descended. She helped those men, gave them a measure of peace, but taking away nightmares is not the same. This is more, this is  _so much more_.

The guards are holding him in the chair, strapping his arms in place, cinching the buckles around his legs and she can see Henry’s tears dripping down his cheeks, soaking the ragged collar of his shirt and suddenly it’s  _too much_.

“Wait.”

Richter turns to her, triumph in his face.

“Yes?”

Will she really do this? She looks again at Henry’s terrified face, and her stomach rolls when she sees that the constant bursts of electricity are turning his hair gray.

Will she really do this?

“Take me down.”

When the door to the lab opens, a low moan comes from the chair when Henry sees them dragging her closer. Even with his scrambled brain, through the murky fog of half-formed memories, he recognizes her.

“No! Oh my god,  _no_. What is this? Why are you here?” he asks in anguish. He fights the straps, a fruitless endeavor.

Reaching for him, she wipes away his tears. Everything inside her is screaming,  _begging_  her to refuse. She can’t do this again, she can’t destroy a man’s life.

But if this is the only way to end the pain - then she  _must_.

“It’s okay,” she soothes. “It’s okay. I’m okay, please don’t worry. They said they’ll let me help you.”

“Help me?” he repeats, tear-filled eyes searching her face.

“Yes, I can - help,” her voice hitches. Desperately holding back tears, needing to make this moment as painless for him as possible.

Cupping his wet cheeks, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. There’s a moment of nothingness, and then a soft glow appears. Heat flows through her fingers and he relaxes. The white light glows brighter and brighter and brighter, until - she lets go. His eyes roll back and his head droops.

Stepping back, she feels the wave of cold pulsing through her.

Everything, nearly all his memories, wiped away with a touch of her hands. All those pieces that made him who he was are gone. Obliterated from existence, never to be recovered.

Well.  _Nearly_ all.

Inside his head, she leaves a few sparse memories. Because as selfish as it sounds, she cannot fathom the pain of being forgotten again, by someone she loves.

*****

It never gets easier.

With the gentle press of her fingers, each man goes limp as she scrubs their brains fresh and clean, ready for whatever Hydra wants to put in place. Strangely, their individual abilities, those that put them on the Hydra selection block - how to obey commands, how to shoot a gun, how to speak a foreign language - those remain. She comes to realize that some things are so deeply ingrained in a person’s DNA, those strips of muscle memory cannot be taken.

Each time she wipes another man clean, she grows colder, the rush of their memories like ice in her veins.

Most of the Hydra guards are disgruntled with the new procedure. They enjoyed listening to the screams, laughed at the writhing bodies as they fought the electric currents shooting through their brains, burning their memories to ash. Torture was what they wanted, that was what they signed up for, not this quiet destruction.

_How boring_ , they mutter glumly to each other.  _Where’s the fun in this?_

*****

Early one morning, she lays on the flimsy mattress, hands folded over her chest, counting the bricks in her cell. She reaches 200 when the door bangs open.

“Get the fuck up,” Richter orders furiously. “Now.”

Rolling her head to look up at him, she sighs tiredly.

“No.”

She keeps counting.

“What did you do?” he snarls, stomping forward. Reaching down, he grabs the chain linking her metal bracelets together, hauling her to her feet. “He’s fucking asking about you. Has a fiancée, he says, needs to tell her where he is.  _What did you do_? It’s supposed to be absolute!”

Swaying slightly, a heady rush of triumph sparkles through her and she shrugs. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t, now get the fuck out there and finish the job,” he orders.

Shaking her head slowly, she sinks back to the mattress.

“No. I’m done doing your dirty work.”

“This is your last god damn warning, I mean it.”

Exhausted laughter bubbles up. Her last warning? What else was he going to do?

“I said no.”

The struggle is clear, twisting his features into something ugly. She watches him, curiously detached.

Suddenly, his face goes eerily calm.

“Alright. Remember you said this.”

Turning sharply, he storms away. She resumes counting.

The faint red glow of sunset peaks through the small bars of her tiny window when he returns. Opening the door slowly, without his customary bang, he says nothing. Instead, he leans in the doorframe and crosses his arms. She pays him no attention, staring at the ceiling.

“I wanted to let you know, we increased the power on the chair. Had to find a way to get rid of those pesky memories you left in his head.” His words caress like the smooth slice of razor blades on her skin. “It’s a shame, but he didn’t make it. Voltage was too high, blood vessels in his head exploded. Brutal. Such a mess to clean up.”

She should have expected this. She should have known.

“Maybe next time you’ll listen,” he adds.

_Next time_ , she thinks numbly.  _There won’t be a next time._

*****

**_January, 1943  
Location Unknown_ **

One morning they take her to a new room. Dark shelves line the walls, cluttered with silver tins and glass vials full of colorful liquid.

The guards hoist her onto the table in the middle of the room and chain her arms above her head, fasten her ankles to the edge of the table with smooth leather cuffs.

This is new.

She kicks and squirms, tries to reach for them. They trap her easily, laughing at her weak attempts and in retaliation, cinch the cuffs so tight they tear her skin.

A short, bespectacled man arrives. Leaning over her on the observation table, she sees her reflection in his thick glasses, before the light hits them and they turn an opaque, milky white.

“Hello, Fraulein,” he murmurs, stroking a finger down her cheek. “I am Dr. Arnim Zola and I am very glad to meet you. So much we have to learn together. Let’s see what we can find.”

Her mouth is forced open, a gag between her teeth so she can’t bite through her tongue. Pulling a tray closer, Zola rubs his hands excitedly and picks up a syringe full of a glowing yellow liquid.

The gag does little to muffle her screams.

*****

For three straight weeks, they experiment.

Strapped to the table, liquids of different colors and textures and variations are pumped into her veins. They burn and twist and rip apart her insides bringing incoherent screams that shred her voice, leave her throat so raw and swollen she can barely speak.

Not that it matters. They don’t care what she has to say.

“We will magnify you,” Zola whispers in her ear, while her body vibrates and flails against the restraints. “Such a simple power, we can take it further. You will help us wipe the slate clean for the masses, build an army for Hydra. So easy to restore order to the chaos.”

Every night, they release the straps and drag her back to her room. In the darkness, she huddles under her little blanket and thinks. She understands what they want.

But the weeks pass and the tests continue with no results.

There was no expansion of her ability. It was impossible, something that could not be touched, because it was born inside her, a power sourced directly from her soul. A part of her that was unalterable, no matter what they tried to do.

And so, with nothing else to be done, the experiments simply strung her in a new direction.

Age, the natural progression of life, fell to the wayside. It would come eventually, but for now, their sick experiments simply extended her life.

_What a waste_ , she would think in later years.  _What’s the purpose of a long life, when you’re all alone?_

*****

In the middle of the night, she hears the guards talking outside her door.

“They’re moving everyone next week, sending us to a new base. More of a work camp I guess.”

“Yeah? Hopefully warmer than this shit-hole. Where’s this fancy new place anyway?”

“Some place in Italy. Azzano, I think.”

Dread fills her. Somewhere new. Somewhere with more men she will be forced to destroy.

The night ticks along and that elusive goal,  _sleep_ , finally wraps drowsy fingers around her aching limbs. Floating toward that blessed unconsciousness, she’s on the precipice when it happens.

There’s the sound of a soft, cajoling female voice. It’s a stark contrast to the rough, guttural tones she normally hears and her ears perk.

There’s a pause and she hears the sickening crunch of bone on bone. Scrambling upright, she clutches the blanket, keeping her back to the cold wall. Keys jingle, scraping with a muffled curse and suddenly the door opens. Light floods in, illuminating a strange sight.

A woman steps inside, wiping blood from her knuckles and grimacing.

“Imbeciles. Dammit, that hurt quite a lot more than I expected,” she says to someone behind. She is strikingly beautiful, with thick brown hair falling in fat curls to her shoulders and a sunny, wide-lipped grin.

Pulling up short at the sight of a dirty, disheveled woman crouched on a mattress, she throws her arms out, stopping anyone else from entering.

“What is it?” a man’s voice inquires impatiently, and the woman shakes her head.

“Stay there. Give me a minute.” Raising her hands slowly, she opens them wide, showing she holds nothing dangerous. Her voice is kind when she speaks. “Hello love. My name’s Peggy Carter. Let me help you.”

*****

Flanked by a small, covert group of undercover agents led by SSR Agent Margaret Carter, she escapes. The agents were clearly not equipped to support a captive, they were simply there for intel, but it doesn’t matter.

When Peggy Carter insists, everyone listens.

As they make their way out, she asks the date and then does the math.

Between December 1942 and January 1943, she spends 44 days in Hydra’s grasp. She will remember every second until the day she dies.

*****

The trip home to London takes a week. In transit, she learns the base was deep in the countryside outside Krakow, Poland.

Peggy never leaves her side. She appreciates the warmth of a protective arm around her, lets herself be lulled into drowsy comfort by the rolling English accent. One evening, as she sits huddled under a thick blanket, Peggy takes her hands and rubs them encouragingly.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

There is such obvious gentleness there, but she refuses.

“Thank you, Peggy, but no. I just want to forget this ever happened.”

What an ironic comment from her.  _Forgetting_.

“I understand. What will you do next?” Peggy asks carefully. “I can help you find a job at the SSR if you like. We always need good recruits.”

There are good intentions there, and frankly if she still had the capacity to trust anyone in this world, she would trust Peggy Carter. But she knows how the world works and in the end, they’re all the same.

Hydra. The SSR. Once they know her ability, she would become nothing more than a weapon. Something to be primed and aimed at whatever target suits their interest. She can never allow herself to be in that position again.

And above all, she knows he will come searching. Whatever happens, she cannot let him find her again.

Normalcy is all she wants, a quiet life away from everything. A small house, somewhere safe to lay her head. Somewhere hidden.

“Please, I just - I want to disappear. From everything and everyone. Please help me.”

Peggy wraps her in a fierce hug and she buries her face in those thick brown curls.

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

*****

In the SSR records, there is no mention of an enhanced woman discovered at a Hydra base in Poland.

*****

In the stuffy space of her tiny London flat, she quickly packs everything into a worn carpetbag.

Treasures she cannot live without, tangible memories she keeps close. While her memory will never allow her to forget, there’s something beautiful in feeling the shapes and textures of her past; she holds tight to those little objects, no matter the cost.

A soft baby blanket. Photos of her and her father. A silver hairbrush and a jewelry box that belonged to her mother. And once again, in the middle of a black night, she disappears.

Finds passage on a ship and sails down the coast of France, weaving through Royal Navy blockades and nests of Nazi gunners. Takes a train and walks miles to a small village in southern France. Buries herself in the rhythm of the town, creating a new life for herself.

She finds a comfortable house. A small kitchen with a bathroom off the back, a tiny bedroom with a little fireplace upstairs. She trades her sewing skills for two chickens and then barters the eggs for a chipped white vase. Every day, she fills it with something fresh.

And she lives a quiet life, alone again. Forgotten by everyone she’s ever known, except the one man she wishes with all her heart would cease to remember.

She mourns for Henry and the tragedy of his fate. Loving a soldier was one thing she never expected and the experience nearly killed her. The war trudges on, and sometimes soldiers pass through the village; while she always puts her nursing skills to good use, she keeps her distance.

Sometimes she sits by the creek, washing clothes in the cold water and thinking. She wishes she had the power to scrub her own brain clean, but no.

This is her penance, the one she will pay from now until the end of time.

To remember.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s reaction surprises her, Sam Wilson might bitch slap Steve Rogers, Bucky makes my favorite sandwich in the entire world because he is a skilled chef, and they have a memorable night together.

**_MISSION REPORT_ **

BOTH TARGETS UNEXPECTEDLY INFILTRATED BASE. UNABLE TO SEPARATE AND ADDRESS INDIVIDUALLY. WILL CONTINUE HOLDING PATTERN UNTIL OPPORTUNITY ARISES.

_What did they find? Sweat beads along his scalp, freezing drips wetting pale hair. He needs to know, he searched that base from top to bottom, but he knows they found something. The Soldier was skittish, and her - well._

_Something happened._

_They will tell him. That he can promise._

_All in due time._

*****

No one knows this, but sometimes when Bucky can’t sleep, he likes to draw.

Between the two of them, Steve is the real artist, no contest there. For Bucky, it’s not about drawing  _well_ , it’s about drawing something that helps him connect with his past.

So occasionally, when the nightmares are  _really_  riding his ass, he wanders to the roof of the tower with three things: his pink notebook of “Bucky Facts”, a blank pad of paper, and Steve’s Prismacolor colored pencils. He flips through his notebook and finds something he’s struggling with - and he draws it. For some reason, when he can transpose the memories from a bundle of echoes into a colorful sketch, it cements the idea in his head.

A paint by number puzzle. Words and colors swirled together to reimagine the past he’s so desperate to remember.

Now, he sits on the coffee table in front of a woman who has no need to  _ever_  remind herself of the past. No need for clumsy outlines and careful colors; the endless infinity of memories locked behind her haunted eyes speaks of every color in the universe and Bucky wonders if he had to paint  _her_  memories, what colors could ever convey the horrors of her past.

He thinks she and the Soldier would have a remarkably similar color palette.

God, he hates that fact.

Her voice is hoarse from talking and she keeps swallowing, stubbornly pushing down the lump of tears threatening to melt in her throat. He understands why she was reluctant to tell him, why she said those ridiculous words.

 _I don’t think you’ll like me very much, when you know_.

Everything about her seems so much clearer now. The hesitancy to reveal her past; the strange collection of items he found stashed around her home; her fear he would be angry when he knew her ability. Bucky gets it, he really truly does, but here’s the thing.

It makes no god damn difference.

He loves her. Nothing will change that.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” he hears her whisper and that’s it.

Scooting forward, he drops from the coffee table to kneel before her. Wiggling himself between her legs, he wraps his arms around her waist and gazes into her miserable expression.

“Listen to me. Do you remember when you told me not to apologize for what happened to me? That is wasn’t my fault? It took me  _years_ to even  _start_  believing that, but the moment I heard it from you, it finally made sense. You did that for me. So right now, I need you to remember those words and repeat them back to me, alright?”

“I can’t -”

“You can,” he says firmly. “What happened there, what you did - it was not your fault. Do you understand that? It was not your fault. Say it back to me.”

The words are lead in her mouth. It takes several stumbling attempts, but Bucky is patient.

“It wasn’t - it wasn’t my fault,” she finally says, her cold fingers clutching his forearms. Bucky rewards her with a huge smile and buries his face against her belly. He hugs her tighter.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats, his voice muffled in her sweater.

“It wasn’t my fault,” she says one more time. Threading her fingers through his hair, she drags her nails lightly over his scalp and Bucky leans contentedly into the touch. They sit in silence and let the minutes drift along until he finally feels her tension subside.

A peculiar thought occurs to him, then.

“The base in Poland, where you were held. I think I know it,” he says cautiously. “Awhile back, we got a distress signal from there. I saw that chair, the one you mean. I, um, sort of broke it. Went kinda nuts and tore it apart. They stuck me in rehab after that, but - totally fuckin’ worth it.”

“Good,” she says fervently, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm. Bucky reaches up and catches her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and trying to lighten the mood.

“Well hey, so - you met Carter then,” he says with a grin. Her lip trembles slightly, but she tries to smile.

“I did,” she confirms.

“Wish you could’ve met under better circumstances, you would’ve had a lot in common. Steve loves telling people how often she’d bust my balls.”

Bucky tickles her and she huffs out a breathless laugh and squirms away. He feels a thousand times lighter when he hears a playful note return to her voice.

“Something tells me you probably deserved it Sergeant.”

“Won’t argue there,” Bucky agrees and stretches up to plant a firm kiss on her lips.

*****

The sun is setting when she asks if she can have some time alone. Bucky can see the struggle in her face - reliving nightmares is exhausting.

“I’ll just be outside,” she says quietly, shrugging into her coat. “Need a few minutes to - think, I guess.”

“Hang on,” he says. Going into the kitchen, he flips on her electric kettle, pulls her favorite purple mug from the cupboard, and plops a teabag inside. Grabbing her biggest quilt, he fluffs it open and wraps it tight around her shoulders; once the kettle sings, he hands her the steaming mug of Earl Grey and drops a kiss on her nose. “There, now you’ll be warm.”

For a long moment, she stares at him. Bucky watches her bite her lip, steeling her nerves to speak. He waits expectantly, his hands running lightly up and down her arms to warm her, but nothing happens. Whatever she wanted to say disappears and she looks down.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“Anytime,” he says softly and opens the door for her. She steps onto the cold porch and sinks onto the top step, tipping her face toward the setting sun. Bucky shuts the door with a click.

Everything changes.

Stalking to the kitchen counter, white-hot rage fills his chest. Snarling at the offending photos, he snatches his phone and dials Steve, and before the phone finishes the first ring, a blond head appears.

“Whaddaya got?” Steve asks, as he rummages through the fridge.

“Are you ever not eating,” Bucky scowls and Steve grunts.

“I’m a growing boy. So?”

Rubbing his forehead, Bucky tries to organize his thoughts and figure out where to begin. The clink and clatter of silverware keeps coming through the phone and then Steve’s piling leftover containers in his arms and dumping them on the counter and out of nowhere, Bucky loses his shit.

“Steve, can you - can you just - I need you to - god fucking dammit Rogers, sit the  _fuck_  down!”

Steve jerks to a stop when Bucky’s voice scales up. Considering him for all of three seconds, Steve dumps the mess of leftovers - which all have  _THESE ARE SAM’S DON’T TOUCH_  written on them in black marker - without a word and walks away, sinking into an armchair.

“Sorry. I’m listening.”

The whole thing is insane and Bucky has no clue how to begin.

So he just starts talking.

About the woman who saved his life when he was bleeding out in a blizzard; how she called him Soldier and brought him to her home and sewed him up. How he shoved a butcher knife to her throat in thanks, before she told him the story of how she met him years ago. How her words helped him remember that bloody night in Paris.

He tells Steve about deciding to stay, about her potato soup, about how he remembered Steve telling him about the letters he got from his girl during the war, and how it felt when Bucky realized he was the Jimmy she wanted that night. He relays the story of how they met during the war and Steve sucks in a shocked breath. Bucky tells him she kept all his letters and how she let him read them again and how he asked her to marry him the last time they were in the village and if he sees tears fill Steve’s eyes, he forces himself to ignore it.

He keeps talking.

About discovering the information at the base, photos and information about the original soldier trials and how there must be someone who fired up the signal, because Bucky found recent blood and a clean black glove. He tells Steve about her ability and what Hydra did to her all those years ago and he can  _hear_  Steve’s teeth clack together, can see the furious tick in his jaw.

It smooths away for a moment, when Bucky recounts the story with Peggy. Steve always was a sap.

Bucky tells him almost everything, but saves some things for himself; he figures he deserves to have a few memories that are all his own.

Well, not just his.  _Theirs_.

When he finishes, Steve is silent. Bucky can see the thoughts swing dancing through his brain as he works it out. Finally, Steve clears his throat.

“Okay, that’s a lot to unravel. I’m gonna have some questions, but for now I’m just gonna go with it. Sounds great.” Bucky snorts and Steve just shrugs. “What can I say? It’s fuckin’ weird, but we’ve seen weirder. I trust your judgement. Tell me what you need.”

Yes, Steve Rogers can be a massive pain in the ass, but Bucky sure fucking loves him.

“Alright. The first distress signal we got was that base near Krakow, where she was kept,” Bucky says. “They were testing soldiers  _there_ and I found more evidence  _here_  - it can’t be a coincidence. I think there’s something or someone connected, I just haven’t found the link.”

“Let’s assume you’re right,” Steve says. “What next?”

“I’m going back into town tomorrow to see if I can dig up anything else. Can you look into that Hydra fuck who was chasing her? See if there’s something we’re not seeing?”

“Got it,” Steve answers. “Say the name again?”

“First name Wilhelm, last name Richter, Romeo-India-Charlie-Hotel-Tango-Echo-Romeo,” he rattles off. “I  _vaguely_  recognize his face, but I was still new when he disappeared, and those early memories are shit. I  _think_  the story was that he deserted, but that’s all I got.”

“Going to the lab now,” Steve heaves himself to his feet and walks swiftly toward the elevators. Smashing the button, he waits impatiently and then looks down at the phone, his expression softening. “Hey Buck?”

“Yeah?” Bucky says distractedly, craning his neck to see out the window. He can still see her sitting on the steps, gazing pensively into the coming night.

“You got your girl back. I’m - hey. I’m really fuckin’ happy for you.” Surprised, Bucky looks down at the phone and sees Steve giving him a crooked grin. “You deserve this. Don’t forget that.”

Bucky nods, feels his face grow warm. “Yeah. Thanks man.”

“I’m coming out to see you both, soon as we get this sorted,” Steve warns. The elevator in front of him dings and Bucky barks out a happy laugh. The idea of his best friend staying at their house like they’re an ordinary couple, with a boring life and annoying friends who crash on their couch - it sends cozy domestic tingles skittering up his spine and he can’t fight the idiotic grin.

“You got it.”

Steve gives him a goodbye salute and the elevator ends the call.

*****

“I was thinking,” Bucky says an hour later.

Dressed in his old sweatpants and ratty Captain America t-shirt, he’s slouched against the arm of the couch. Curled tight against him, her head is tucked into his shoulder. She musters a tiny smile when she looks up. “Should I be nervous?”

“Hey,” he pouts. “It’s like you assume I’d have crazy ideas or something.”

“When the shoe fits,” she murmurs, poking him.

“Very true.” Placing a finger under her chin, he tips her face up and gives her an exaggerated kiss. “But it’s not  _that_  crazy. How about I make you supper?”

She perks up at the suggestion, her strained smile morphing into something real. “I’d love that.”

Scrambling from the couch, Bucky grabs her hands and lifts her up. “Come keep me company,” he urges, guiding her to the kitchen counter. Tugging a blanket tight around her shoulders, she shuffles with him and hops up on a barstool. Even through the layers of sadness, he sees a glimmer of happiness spark in her eyes, and honestly?

That’s all he wanted.

Digging through her drawer of kitchen towels, he finds a green polka-dot apron and ties it around his waist with a flourish. Pulling a hair tie off his wrist, he coaxes the strands into a messy bun, and then cracks his knuckles for good measure.

“You definitely look the part,” she compliments and Bucky winks.

“Alright, so this is a Bucky specialty,” he says confidentially. Rifling through the cabinets, he sets a skillet on the stovetop and starts assembling the ingredients: bread, butter, honey, peanut butter, and three bananas. “I make excellent cereal,  _exceptional_  frozen pizza, and this - fried peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwiches.”

She wrinkles her nose skeptically. “That doesn’t sound like a real thing.”

“Darlin’,” he says, reaching over and tapping her on the nose with a spatula, “where’s the trust?”

Finally.  _Finally_ , he gets the sound he wanted.

A small laugh escapes.

“You’re right. Sorry Buck,” she says, and when he sees the adoration in her eyes, he thinks his heart might explode.

Ten minutes later, he slides the gooey sandwich onto her plate and if she still looks skeptical, she gives him the benefit of the doubt. Taking a small bite, she chews for a moment and looks up in surprise.

“This is fantastic!” she exclaims. Bucky grins and takes a huge, messy bite; peanut butter drips onto the plate, a bit of honey gets stuck in his beard, and a few bananas tumble out.

“Got lots of hidden talents, just you wait and see.”

*****

One bottle of wine, and four sandwiches later, Bucky sees her stifling a yawn and proclaims himself exhausted and ready for bed.

“You go on up,” he tells her, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

While she makes her way upstairs, Bucky does a methodical loop around the small cabin. He checks, double checks, and then triple checks every single lock; every window and every door, even the fireplace flue, gets a thorough review. Once he’s satisfied, he flips the lights off and stands at the living room window, letting his eyes adjust. Feathery snowflakes are swirling again and as he glares into the moonlit night, he finds threats lurking everywhere.

The wind whistling through the trees beyond the front door. The shadows beside the weatherworn walls of the woodshed. The meandering flow of the icy creek down the slope. Before it felt peaceful and idyllic - now it seems harsh and sinister.

It  _infuriates_  him.

What does he have to do to have a normal god damn life with her? Why is there always something standing in their way?

“Whoever you are,” he mutters, “and whatever you want, you stay the  _fuck_  away from her.”

But the night keeps it’s dark secrets. With a vicious sneer, Bucky heads upstairs.

*****

Flickers of blue and orange dance merrily in the fireplace, casting a warm glow around the dark bedroom. Padding silently to the doorway, he stops.

And he drinks up the image hungrily, slotting it into his newly built box of favorite memories.

Huddled on the bed, her knees are drawn up to her chest and she gazes thoughtfully into the flames, her chin cupped in her palm. When he clears his throat, she looks over with the ghost of a smile.

“Hey, you,” Bucky says quietly. Walking to the foot of the bed, he waits nervously. For what, he doesn’t know, but it feels like the right thing to do.

Sitting up on her knees, she leans forward and skims her hands lightly up his chest, circling his broad shoulders and trailing down his arms. When her fingers brush over his hands, one a little sweaty, one always cold, she picks both of them up together and drops a kiss on his knuckles.

It nearly makes him cry.

Instead, he curls a wide hand behind her neck and finds her lips. The kiss is deep, his tongue rubbing gently against hers and it feels like heaven, sizzling hot and full of fire. God, her kiss could bring him to his  _knees_.

But rather unexpectedly, she breaks away.

And Bucky feels his entire world tilt when she sheds her t-shirt, before eagerly meeting his lips again. Frozen in surprise, he feels her guiding his hands over her body, until his fingers are splayed across her bare skin and this time  _he_  breaks the kiss with a strangled groan.

“Are you sure?” he says hoarsely, staring intently while he struggles to keep his hands from roaming. “We don’t have to do anything, I don’t expect - “

“Please, Bucky” she interrupts softly, her cool hands skimming down his chest and he tightens his abs reflexively. “Please?”

There’s no way on earth, he’s telling her no.

Cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over her nipples, Bucky moves in for another kiss. Metal and human, his fingers circle her breasts, pinching and rolling the sensitive skin until she’s panting into his mouth and he drinks down the sweet sounds. He feels her bunching up the fabric of  _his_  shirt, wordlessly asking him to remove it, and he wants to feel her skin on his more than  _anything_ , but then his stupid head gets in the way again.

“My - my scars and everything, they’re not - it ain’t pretty,” he warns. “I know you saw them when you fixed me up, but this is different. I know that, you don’t have to - I mean, I can leave the shirt on, if you - you know, if you want.”

“No,” she says fiercely. “I want  _you,_ Bucky. All of you.”

The words are magic and Bucky sags with relief. Taking a deep breath, he crosses his arms and and he shakes only a little when he pulls the shirt off. It drops from numb fingers, and the web of thick scars looks surreal in the firelight, smooth and dark pink. He watches her eyes find the pattern carved into his skin, five ropes of raised tissue clearly outlining his attempt to claw the damn thing off in some past life.

Fucking Christ, he hates this part of himself, he really fucking does.

But of course, it doesn’t faze her.

Bringing her mouth to the joint of his shoulder, she presses her lips to his scars, and each line Bucky unwittingly scratched into his body, she memorizes with her tongue. On and on, her mouth moves against him and when she finally stops, the puckered skin feels warm for the first time in his entire  _life_.

In disbelief, he stares at the unfiltered love in her face and he feels the faint burn of tears pricking his eyes.

How the hell did he ever got so god damn lucky?

With a rush, he slants his mouth back over hers, and pushes her back into the fluffy blankets. Crawling hurriedly over her, he settles between her legs, never breaking the kiss, while he reacquaints himself with everything. The tiny noises she makes, the feel of her body beneath him, the insistent way she rolls her hips against him. Every bit feels perfect and Bucky loses himself in her, time immaterial as he does his best to take her apart.

Because if she really does have to remember everything, well - Bucky’s damn well going to give her something incredible to remember.

When her fingers trail down and hook in the waistband of his sweats, desire zings straight to his dick and he’s so close to just going with it, he  _really is_ , but  _god dammit_ , he’s a moron who’s unable to let himself be happy, so  _once again_ , he breaks the kiss with a reluctant hiss.

“Fucking  _hell_. Wait,  _wait_ , before we do anything, I’m sorry, but I need - I have to tell you, I gotta be honest,” he rasps urgently, cursing himself in every language he knows. “There are - there  _were_  - there have been others. Through the years, I’ve been with other people. During - when I was with  _them_. And then a couple others since I came back.”

Okay, maybe Steve Rogers isn’t a cockblock after all.

Maybe Bucky Barnes is his own god damn idiot cockblock.

Shame wells up and he tries to look away, but she immediately turns him back.

“Bucky, no. Don’t. I assumed. It was  _seventy years_. Of course, there were other people,” she gives him a crooked little smile. “There were others for me too, sometimes. When I needed to - to cope. With the loneliness.”

There’s a wild flash of anger at her words, not directed at her, not even directed at the nameless lovers in her bed, but directed at the circumstances that put them on this path; they deserved better than this. But regardless, he needs her to understand something.

Something that shapes everything they are together.

“It was only ever you though,” he promises heatedly. “Deep down inside, it was only you. It’s only ever been you. I need you to know that.”

“I know,” she says, and she tugs him down for another toe-curling kiss.

This time,  _finally_  - he goes with it.

“I want to memorize every single inch of your body,” he murmurs. “Don’t want to  _ever_  forget again.”

So he starts at the top.

He kisses the curve of her shoulders, the delicate skin over her collarbone; he licks and sucks at her nipples until her skin feels chaffed from his rough beard. He pulls down her sleep shorts as he moves lower, fumbling awkwardly with his own sweats and tossing them both over his shoulder. At first he skips what he  _really_  wants, and instead searches out the fragile bones at her ankles, traces the smooth muscle in her calves, nips the skin behind her knee.

He holds himself back until he can’t take it any more.

And then he buries his face between her legs with a groan.

She tastes like heaven. Fuck, how did he live this long without having her on his tongue every single day? He feels her knees tip inward self-consciously and he gently pushes them open, keeping them pinned to the bed because he’s planning to stay here  _forever_  if she’ll let him.

Looking down, she finds him watching intently. His dark hair tickles her thighs, his bright blue eyes burn her from the inside out, and her entire body begins to tingle. Fingers flex, toes curl, her breath comes fast and rough, and then Bucky sucks her clit  _hard_ and pushes two thick fingers into her.

Strung out and floating, she grab fistfuls of his hair and moans.

Bucky grips her leg tight and breaks away for a split second to speak.

“Come on honey, let go for me,” his voice is a low growl and she glances down to see him grinding his hips into the bed, searching for his own relief, and it’s that flex and roll, the way his muscles bunch so  _beautifully_ , that tips her over the edge. With a cry, she comes hard, clutching his face to her as the orgasm shivers through every cell of her body.

“Oh god,” she rasps, “ _oh god_ , Bucky.”

It thrills him beyond anything, the sound of his name like a prayer on her lips.

“So good,” he murmurs, still continuing the light strokes of his tongue. “You taste so fucking  _good_.”

“That was - that was -  _god_ , Bucky” she mumbles, tripping over the words. Mouthing at the curve of her hip, he hums delightedly.

“Just getting started. Can you turn over for me?” he asks gently, and she blinks slowly, before her smile follows. Rolling to her stomach, she stretches languidly, wrapping her arms around a pillow. “I hope you have another one in you,” Bucky says lowly, giving her bottom a playful squeeze.

“I think I can manage,” she says, her voice muffled, and Bucky huffs a laugh. Planting a kiss at the base of her spine, he works his way north, his tongue tracing every bump along the way. Up, up, up, his lips cover the knobs up her back and his fingers follow, warm flesh and cool metal walking up her ribcage, until he reaches the back of her neck. Licking a slow line up, he mouths at the smooth skin behind her ear and her body twitches at the feel.

Nudging her legs open further, he shifts his hips and reaches a hand down to grip himself tight. Willing himself to stop shaking, he rubs himself between her legs, and finds her so wet and so  _slick_  from the orgasm he gave her just moments before. With his lips at her ear, he whispers his favorite words in a low rush.

“I love you,” he tells her, before he pushes himself inside.

At the feel, he goes utterly still.

It rattles him down to his god damn  _bones_ , this love he has for her - she can feel him trembling above her and she glances over her shoulder to meet his wide-eyed stare.

“I love you too,” she breathes, and her voice is the anchor he needs. Blinking rapidly, he dips down to kiss her cheek.

And he starts to move.

All Bucky knows in this moment, is her. The tight feel of her on his cock. The way her skin holds a hint of salt. The way she shudders every time he bottoms out. Every nuance of her body that he must have memorized in his past life.

Sliding his hand beneath her, his fingers find their way between her legs and he strokes her clit with every slow rock of his hips. Against the backdrop of dim light from the crackling fire, the room fills with the delicious sounds of pleasure, quiet grunts and the sharp catch of breath and the rustle of fabric as a body slides over silky sheets.

Dropping his mouth to the pulse at her neck, he sucks gently, insatiable for the thrumming feel of her heartbeat laid bare on his tongue. When he hears her breathing harder, sees her hands gripping the bedsheets tighter, feels her body beginning that faint tremble again, he abruptly changes his mind.

“Wait, please wait,” he begs, pulling himself carefully from her body and rolling her onto her back. Wide eyes meet his and time stops.

Spread out beneath him, she is sheer perfection.

Before she can speak, Bucky captures her lips again and shoves himself back into her.

And maybe it’s the strangest thing, but even without the memories to guide him, that muscle memory branded into his heart knows what to do. Just like their first time together, Bucky pulls her leg up and hitches it around his waist, thrusting into her harder. Unable to speak, unable to even look  _away_ , they watch each other, both devouring the small bits they find, in case  _god forbid_ , they ever lose each other again.

When her fingers curl around his neck, drawing him closer, he rests his forehead against hers.

“Bucky,” she whispers, his name catching in her throat, “ _Bucky_.”

“I’m here,” he pants above her. Every thrust comes faster and his control begins to slip. “I’m here, I lo-love you,  _god_  I love you so fu-fucking  _much_ , never leaving you again, not ev-ever,” he grits out.

Anchoring his knees to the mattress, he slams himself into her again and again, hitting every nerve ending just right and suddenly she finds a universe of stars. Clutching his shoulders, she clings tight to him as her body tenses and she comes one more time.

Bucky stutters out a wrecked groan when he feels her body gripping him, and that familiar tingle hits his belly. Burying his face in her neck, he gives one last, hard thrust and then grinds himself against her, a strangled growl ripping from his throat when he follows her into that blissful oblivion.

Breathing hard, he keeps his eyes shut tight against her, willing his heart to slow. Against her neck, he sucks a wet line up her throat, back to her lips. Warm, lazy kisses ease them both back to reality and their racing hearts find a new rhythm.

One that beats  _together_.

Muscle memory, in the purest sense.

When you cut to the heart of their story, there’s a simple truth: they’re so different from who they were together in 1944. Both have lived multiple lifetimes, filled with all the tragedy and heartbreak the world could dish out; it shaped each of them in ways the other has yet to discover.

But even though time has reshaped them into something  _new_ , there are some things that will never change.

Each touch buzzes with forgotten familiarity, the way she trails her fingers up his sweat-slick bicep, like something he remembers from a hazy dream; the way his breath catches with every slow thrust of his hips is a sound she could follow in her sleep; the way their bodies fall easily into a rhythm together, an unconscious muscle memory.

Bucky wants to run into the snowy night, wants to shout his happiness to the heavens. This right here, this is what the poets sing about. Every line, every song, every beat of a lovestruck heart. Here in her arms, he finds everything he ever hoped to have and in the fading firelight, he holds fast to the one truth he knows above all else.

Love like this, is worth any cost.

“You’re the love of my life,” he whispers, and she lays her cheek against his chest and kisses the sweaty skin above his heart.

Right there, Bucky knows he’s the luckiest man on Earth.

*****

The sun is just beginning to creep into the eastern horizon, but he’s been awake for hours.

Laying between her legs, his head is pillowed on her stomach. The sleep shirt she wears is tissue thin and satiny smooth; it smells just like her and keeps taking deep, cleansing breaths, trying to embed that scent into his memory. Bit creepy maybe, but oh well.

Dim rays of light begin to slip into the room, filtering through the tall pine trees flanking the window, and as the world begins to wake, she follows. Like a touch-starved kitten, Bucky nuzzles into her, wordlessly asking for affection and when she scratches her nails along his scalp, it feels so damn  _good_ , he gives a blissful little groan.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and she hums.

“I love you,” she mumbles sleepily and there’s a pleased rumble in his chest at her reply.

“Won’t ever get tired of hearing that,” he sighs happily.

“I’ll never get tired of saying it,” she answers with a yawn.

Still half asleep, he feels her relaxing, the comforting strokes of her fingers getting slower, heavier, and he knows she’s drifting back to sleep. Maybe he should let her, but there are these words he’s been practicing under his breath all night long and he’s getting anxious and he just wants to say them, before he loses the nerve.

“Darlin’?” he asks quietly, folding his hands across her chest and resting his chin on them.

“Hmmm?” she says, her voice a bit slurry as she opens her eyes. Bucky fleetingly thinks every bit of light in the world must be concentrated on her, because she’s the only thing he can see.

Heart racing, he tamps down the nervousness and wets his lips. He wants to do this  _right_ , wants to make sure it’s perfect.

“Would you do something for me?” he says carefully, choosing  _those words_ , borrowing that phrase he gave her back in 1944 and  _god_ , he hopes he’s returning them in the way she remembers.

At first, she doesn’t catch it, simply running her fingers down his arm, but her words are so naturally reminiscent of the past.

“I’d do anything for you.” Bucky says nothing, simply waiting. She’s confused by his silence, until he tilts his head and a slow smile curves his lips. Her eyes smiles. Her eyes widen and she blinks slowly. “Bucky -“

The staccato thrum of her heartbeat is suddenly flying against his hands and his blue eyes are so  _bright_ , overflowing with emotion when he completes the question.

“Would you marry me?”

Time, normally an unending commodity, freezes. They stare at each other, Bucky holding his breath as he waits, desperate for the same answer she gave him in 1945, knowing it’s a risk, he’s taking a huge leap here, but unable to do anything except go for it.

“I want to marry you Bucky, I do, I want - I want it so - god, I want it so much. You’re all I ever - this is the only thing I’ve ever wanted - “

Blowing out a huge breath, Bucky starts to laugh. Bouncing up, he cuts her off, peppering her face with happy kisses, sloppy wet trails down her forehead, over her cheeks, on her nose, up her neck. Every inch of skin he can find he marks with excited lips.

“Shit, thank god, ugh thank  _god_! I mean it this time, I’m getting you that ring. Soon as I get back to New York I’ll get it, you come with me, we’ll pick it out together, anything you want. Hell, I got decades of back-pay from the army, and I mean, I hate to brag, but I’m sorta rich now.”

“Bucky -“

“Whatever you want for a wedding, I’m game. If you want something big, that’s great. Something small, even better. Only thing I need is to have the team there, and Steve’ll flat out murder me if he doesn’t get to stand up with us, he’s a real bitch for attention sometimes.”

“Bucky -“

“And we can live wherever you want, doesn’t matter to me. I’d love to just stay here if that’s okay, if you don’t mind, I mean it really feels like home and I ain’t had one of those for so damn long, but if you wanna live in New York or hell, anywhere, I can make it work, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Bucky, I’m - “

“And I’m done with work, that’s it,” he laughs exuberantly “Stark’ll be pissed, he just made me this new arm, but I don’t fuckin’  _care_ , I got you now, I’m staying put unless they get  _really desperate_  and -“

“Bucky, stop!”

The panic in her voice is like a wave of ice water. It shuts him down instantly. Silence hangs heavy in the room before he blows out a long breath.

“Shit,” he says softly, embarrassment pinking his cheeks. “Dammit, that was - was that too much? M’sorry, I got carried away, I just -  _shit_ , I’m sorry.”

Sitting up on her knees to face him, she reaches up and tucks his messy hair behind his ears and cups his flushed face in her palms. “No, it wasn’t too much, it was - it was  _perfect_ , that’s not it.”

“Okay. Okay, so - was it something else I said?”

She says nothing, but instead she searches his face, her eyes slowly roaming over every feature and Bucky thinks for a moment that she’s memorizing him. Licking her lips, she rubs her thumbs lightly over his sharp cheekbones and she swallows hard.

“Shit,” she says under her breath. “Shit, shit, shit. Fuck.”

“Hey, thought I was the one with the potty mouth here,” he jokes weakly. She doesn’t crack a smile and Bucky feels his stomach swoop uncertainly. “Darlin’, what - what’s the matter?”

Still, she says nothing. Longing is so heartbreakingly clear in her face and Bucky can’t reconcile it. Suddenly, she surges forward, pressing her lips to his and he catches her, folding her up in his arms. She kisses him  _desperately_ , twining her arms around his neck and Bucky still has no idea what’s going on, but it doesn’t matter. All he wants, is to soothe whatever terrible thought is upsetting her, because this is his job, this is what he does.

He loves her, no matter what.

When she finally breaks the kiss, he tries to smile. “What was that for?”

Breathing hard, she closes her eyes.

“Just in case.”

With those words, she extricates herself from his arms and climbs from the bed. Walking to the fireplace, she slots her fingers into a tiny groove on the bottom of the third stone above the mantle. It takes no more than a gentle tug, and the stone comes away easily. Setting it carefully on the floor, she reaches into the black space it reveals.

Another hiding spot.

Whatever she collects, she stares at it for a full minute, before clasping it to her chest. Turning slowly, fearful eyes lock on his face and for a fleeting moment, Bucky conjures the morbid image of someone walking to their own execution. Climbing back onto the bed, she sits back on her heels and he sees her clutching a small silver box.

“I want to marry you Bucky Barnes. I want to spend every day of the rest of my life with you, because I’ve loved you  _every single day_ since the moment we met, and I hope - I  _need_  you to know that.”

“I know, honey,” he says in absolute confusion.

“You’re the love of my life. Please remember that,” she whispers, and she sets the silver box on the bed. The lock has five numbers, and she spins each dial until it pops open. Fingers shaking, she picks up the small piece of fabric inside and holds it out for him to see.

It’s the strangest thing.

In her hand, is a ripped piece of faded blue cloth, with a familiar gray patch sewn into it; smudgy rust-red splotches color the edges like fingerprints.

Wings. Gray wings. Nostalgically familiar, because back in the war, each of the Howling Commandos wore one on their left sleeve, a mirror image tribute to the one painted on Steve’s helmet.

Including Bucky. Who wore one on the left sleeve of his coat.

The left sleeve of his  _blue_  coat.

Now, he stares uncomprehendingly at the piece of cloth. “What - “ he starts, but his voice fades. Small shivers are running through her body as she watches him, her face filled with dread. Taking a shaky breath, she whispers.

“There was one other time we met.”

*****


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time. Grief can be all consuming and overwhelming. This time, we follow her while she tries to learn how to live again, before a night in 1946 changes everything.

*****

**_February 1945_ **

The telegram informing her of Bucky’s death, written in Steve Rogers’ messy, cursive scrawl, sits on her kitchen table for a week. Across the creamy white paper are crinkled watermarks and trickles of black ink, where the paper swallowed her teardrops and bled out the sorrow of Steve’s words. One night, in a fit of anger, she tears it to shreds and feeds each piece to the hungry flames licking up the stone wall of her fireplace. There is immediate relief at the words disappearing, but even without their physical presence, the grief always returns.

****

**_March 1945_ **

The plush wool feels soft in her hands. A week after his last visit, she saw the bundle in a storefront and bartered two of her old dresses for it; the color was a simple heather gray, but she knew it would look perfect against the deep blue of his coat. Every evening, she would knit until her fingers ached, but in a few weeks, she had a thick wool scarf, one of her old hair ribbons tied around it for a bow. She thought she would keep it as his birthday gift. Now, on what would have been Bucky’s 28th birthday, she wraps it around her neck and crawls into bed. Sleep doesn’t come, but every memory of him arrives like a fresh bullet, punched clean through her chest.

****

**_May 1945_ **

_Over! The war is over!_  Relieved cries reverberate through the town when VE Day arrives, children running down streets screaming with excitement, mothers and widows weeping joyously in the streets. Healing will take decades, but with those words, the world begins to plan for what comes next. Life is breathed back into the village and in the crowded town square, she lifts her face to the sunshine and closes her eyes. Fingers the chain around her neck holding the St. Michael medal Bucky gave her for their engagement, and wonders if she will ever be warm again.

****

**_July 1945_ **

Wildflowers grow in riotous bursts of yellow and red and purple, filling the space behind her chicken coop with color. Laying amid the blooms, she sits in the baking summer sun, tracing her fingers over the colorful images on the postcards Bucky gave her. She thinks about traveling. About visiting those places, seeing them with new eyes, free from war. When she looks at the Brooklyn postcard, she wonders about visiting his family, but then she sees the crooked hearts he drew on the back, and she knows it would be too much. She puts the cards away.

****

**_September 1945_ **

Leaves begin to fall, carpeting the grassy bank near the stream. Going through the motions, she dumps clothes from her basket, dunking them in the gurgling water, scrubbing them clean under crystal clear moonlight. Humming under her breath, she sings to pass the time, but the only words she can find are the ones she sang the first night Bucky found her by the creek and walked her home.  _We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when_. It hurts too much, so she just stops singing.

****

**_October 1945_ **

Soldiers have been returning for weeks. Gaunt and haunted, new men arrive every few days, and do their best to pick up the threads of their old lives. One Saturday morning, she walks through the stalls of the market, examining produce and talking with the vendors. A young soldier steps aside to let her pass, quickly pulling off his hat and smiling. Offering a quiet hello in response, she finishes her shopping and leaves; the soldier jogs after her and nervously asks, could he perhaps walk her home? The earnest look in his eyes is so familiar, it makes her sick. She gently tells him no.

****

**_December 1945_ **

Taking a sharp kitchen knife, she goes into the trees and cuts an armful of pine boughs. She spreads them through her house, taking deep breaths of the sharp, piney scent. In the white vase on her table, she tucks them carefully in place and adds a small sprig of holly, the red berries shining brightly. Curled in the armchair beside her fire, she drinks tea and listens to the staticky crackle of Christmas hymns on her new radio. It’s a daily battle, but it happens. Life really does go on.

****

**_February 1946_ **

Coming home late one evening, she unlocks her back door and hangs her coat in the hallway. Rubbing chilly hands together, she walks into her kitchen and turns on the light. She skids to a stop. Filling the small space, are two hulking men dressed in black. One steps forward and quickly grabs her arms, while the other plays with a length of rope and smiles at her. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Someone wants a word.”

There’s a cursory struggle, but she doesn’t fight hard. She thinks to herself, if they kill her, maybe she’ll see Bucky on the other side.

That thought makes her smile, before the world goes dark.

 

*****

For the second time in her life, she awakens in a cold cell. Stretching her aching limps, she knows immediately this most certainly isn’t heaven.

Hell has a very specific look to it. One she knows far too intimately by now.

The small cell is clean, containing a lumpy bed and a worn blanket; in the corner is a pitcher of water and a bucket, and high on the wall is a small window letting in slivers of light. Her hands are bound in front of her, rough pieces of rope looped so tight around her wrists, the skin has rubbed itself raw. Blood soaks into the bristly rope fibers, staining it with streaks of black.

Where is she this time?

Leaning back against the wall, she blows out a long breath and there’s a strange satisfaction in her realization.

She just doesn’t care.

 

*****

Hours or maybe days later, her door creaks open. Outlined in the doorframe, is a tall Hydra guard dressed all in black, a mask over his face, a pair of reflective goggles covering his eyes. When he sees her, the gun in his hands trembles the slightest bit, before it steadies once more.

 _So_ , she thinks.  _Here it comes._

Motioning with the gun, the guard indicates she should stand, but she mutinously stays on the bed. If she has to go, she will be defiant to the end.

Stepping forward, he hesitates briefly, before grasping the rope and jerking her to her feet. Balancing his gun at the back of her neck, he pushes her forward.

Down a long hall they go, moving through a set of wooden doors. With a mute resistance, she refuses to walk, forcing him to physically drag her instead. Finally, he simply picks her up and throws her over his shoulder, stalking down the hallway with a series of breathless grunts.

She kicks him the entire way.

When he arrives at a heavy oak door, he bangs three times and throws it open.

The room is surprising. This is no torture chamber, filled with metal tables and metal chairs and the metallic taste of electricity on her tongue. It is warm and cozy, a roaring fireplace on one wall, armchairs strewn casually around, tall shelves lined with books. 

In the middle of the room, stands Colonel Richter, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Please, come in,” he says cordially, laughter in his voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The guard dumps her in a sprawling heap and departs. In the flickering firelight, she struggles awkwardly to her feet and readies for battle.

“You again. What do you want? You know I won’t help you,” she snaps, her eyes roaming around the room, searching for threats.

Richter looks amused. Sipping his whiskey, he comes slowly closer until he is only inches from her face.

“First things first. Before, when you stole away in the dead of night - that was a bit rude, don’t you think?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The quick crack of his backhand sends her stumbling sideways. The heavy ring he wears rips open a fat gash on her cheek and she instantly feels blood begin to ooze.

“Such language for a lady. Did you learn that from him? Let’s try again, shall we? I have a story for you and I’d like you to listen,” he says. “A few months ago, we were working on him and in the middle of one of his delirious rants, I hear something interesting. Can you guess?”

Glaring at him, she remains silent.

“No guesses?” he grins, raising his eyebrows. “Alright then. Through all the screaming and crying, I hear him say your god damn name. Imagine my surprise.”

The first prickles of confused fear skate up her back. “What the hell are you talking about?” she spits out.

“It took some digging, but we managed to trace the path he and that wretched group of assholes from his unit made the last couple years of the war. I sent a few search parties out, and low and behold - here you are.”

Bucky told her once, how he and Captain Rogers parachuted from an airplane. She remembers him laughing about the free-fall, how it made his stomach swoop in a million directions. That feeling of free-falling sweeps over her now, turning her blood to ice.

“What do you mean?  _Who_?”

Richter smiles widely, his eyes gleaming. Grabbing the bloody ropes around her wrists, he yanks her forward and pushes her into the shadowy corner of the room.

“Wait here. I have a surprise for you.”

Outside the door, she hears voices arguing. The scuffle of feet and the sharp bite of an angry voice. Suddenly, the door swings open and four guards enter, dragging a fifth man.

From the dark shadows, she muffles a scream.

Bucky looks exhausted. Dressed in a long-sleeved green shirt and ragged brown pants, he’s thinner than the last time she saw him. Rings of black circle his eyes, the vibrant blue now dull and listless. All his beautiful dark hair has been buzzed short and she can see bloody sores scabbing over along his temples. The left sleeve of his wool shirt is empty, pinned up at his shoulder and his right arm is tucked behind him, a leather strap looped around his wrist and stretched across his chest, keeping his good arm immobile.

“You didn’t tell me it was a party,” he rasps mockingly. “I would’ve put on my fancy clothes.”

One of the guards grabs a fistful of his shirt and drags him closer. “Jesus Christ, I am  _so fucking sick_  of your fucking mouth,” he sneers and Bucky shoots him a cocky grin.

“Sweetheart, you’re  _adorable_  when you’re mad,” he stage-whispers. In the blink of an eye, the guard draws back his arm and smashes his fist into Bucky’s face. Dropping to his knees, Bucky’s mocking laugh turns into a rattling cough that comes up with a spray of blood and he spits strings of red on the floor. “Like being kissed by your mom,” he says weakly.

Swearing ferociously, the guard moves to kick him, but Richter holds up his hand.

“For god’s sake, every fucking time. You know he does this, why do you let him get to you?”

The guard is visibly furious, but he says nothing. Instead, he grabs Bucky by the back of his shirt, hauling him roughly to his feet. Bucky sways precariously, before he finds his balance. Taking several deep breaths, he fixes his mouth back into that mocking smirk and lifts his chin.

“Evening boys. What the  _fuck_  can I do for you today?”

Richter gives him a congenial smile. “We have a visitor tonight. I thought perhaps you’d like to meet her.”

Bucky barks out a hollow laugh. “I sincerely fuckin’ doubt that.”

Richter’s smile grows impossibly larger. “Well, let’s see, shall we?”

Pulling her from the shadows, he throws her forward and she stumbles into the light.

Here’s the thing.

Bucky Barnes is so weak, he can barely stay on his feet. For the last five days, he’s eaten nothing more than a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water. When he walks, he greatly favors his right side, still unbalanced by the loss of his left arm even a year later, and when he speaks, his voice has a perpetually guttural sound, his vocal cords shredded from months of screaming. Sprinkled across his shaved head, are a mess of pink scars where the dull razor blades they used bit cruelly into his scalp.

He looks exactly as one would expect. A prisoner of war.

For weeks, he’s been on the verge of collapse, but the moment he sees her, none of that matters.

Horrified disbelief fills his face and his eyes flick from the tears on her face, to the trickle of blood down her cheek, to the blood-soaked ropes around her wrists.

With a feral howl, he lunges toward her.

Throwing off the shocked guards at his side, he head-butts the man in front of him, sending him flying back. With a well-aimed kick, he knocks the legs from under the fourth guard and the man falls hard, before Bucky levels a savage kick to his head.

Richter laughs delightedly as he watches the show, until Bucky rushes for him. Lifting his gun, he sets it casually against her temple and cocks it. At the click of the hammer, Bucky skids to a stop, his mouth still twisted in a vicious snarl. Sweat dripping down his face, blood dripping from his busted lip, his chest heaves furiously.

“You god damn motherfucking cocksucking piece of shit, you let her go. Let her fuckin’ go, or I’ll fuckin’  _gut_  you.”

“I thought so,” Richter says smugly. “So, our Soldier has something to fight for. How utterly inconvenient.”

“You’re god damn straight I fuckin’ do,” Bucky hisses, staggering under the rush of adrenaline. “Hurt her and I swear to god, I swear to fuckin’  _god_ , I will slit your fuckin’ throat.”

With a dramatic sigh, Richter keeps his eyes on Bucky and bends down to speak in her ear.

“Apparently this one’s special, fights harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. Every time we wipe him, every memory comes back in a couple days. I don’t know what Zola did to him, but his brain fixes it too fast. Basically, he just won't  _fucking_  stay down.”

“Fuck no I won’t,” Bucky interrupts.

“See what I mean? You know what happened last time,” Richter says softly, his breath hot in her ear. “I don’t care if he is Zola’s little pet, he’s a wild fucking animal and I’m not above putting him down. So here we are. You fix him or I kill him. Your choice.”

“What the fuck is he talking about,” Bucky asks, looking directly at her now. “What - darlin, what the hell does he mean?”

Looking into his eyes, she thinks about that lovely blue. For the rest of her life, she knows she will see it everywhere. In everything.

Behind him, the guard he head-butted lumbers to his feet and manages to get his forearm locked around Bucky’s neck. 

Richter stands behind her, waiting. Against her skin, he presses a light kiss and she shudders at the hideous feel.

“Come now. You love him, don’t you? Do the right thing.”

Clasped in a tight chokehold, she can see Bucky’s face turning red as he splutters for breath.

“No,” she chokes out. “I won’t. I  _won’t_.”

Cruel fingers dig into the back of her neck and he hisses in her ear. “If you say no, I will put him in that chair and fry his fucking brain every single day for the rest of his life and I will make you watch. Even if he heals fast, he still screams like a baby.  _Trust_  me on that one.”

Bucky is still fighting, his throat working uselessly as he tries to draw a breath.

Every scenario, every choice, every possibility, flies through her head. Trying desperately to come up with a solution, with a way to save them both, she thinks and thinks and  _thinks_.

And she comes up empty, because the answer is simple.

There is no solution.

_There is no solution._

Then what choice does she have?

She remembers the parade of men from before, the sound of their screams as the chair rocked bolts of electricity through them again and again. The thought of Bucky strapped in that chair, his body convulsing as the electric currents wrack his body, as he screams for her to help him - it is inconceivable. She knows what she has to do. She  _knows_.

_What choice does she have?_

“Yes,” she sobs, her eyes filling with tears. “Fine, yes, I’ll do it, please just - let him go.”

Motioning to the guard, Richter points at the floor. The man releases his death-grip on Bucky’s throat, kicking his feet from under him and Bucky falls hard to his knees. Wrenching herself from Richter’s harsh grip, she rushes to catch him before Bucky’s face hits the floor.

“You have one minute,” Richter warns, fading into the shadows of the dark room. “And then you do it. If you leave anything behind again, I  _will_  kill him.”

After everything, here they are. Together.

Kneeling in front of the fireplace, the warm light cocoons them in their own world, one last time.

Bucky rests his head on her shoulder, closing his eyes when she cradles his thin frame against her. In the quiet room, his short, shallow breaths echo raggedly. Carefully, she runs her fingers soothingly up his neck, over the spiky tufts of dark hair and his body wilts in her tight embrace.

Sighing wearily, he picks his head up and touches his forehead to hers. Cupping his face, she brushes her fingers over the scratchy stubble lining his sunken cheeks and he gives her a rueful smile.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking. You okay with a one-armed husband?” he breathes. “Promise I can still love you just as hard.”

Tears streaming down her face, she returns his smile. “I love it. It makes you look dashing.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” he replies, pushing his nose against hers. Precious seconds slip by as they sit in silence, breathing each other in. Both trying their damndest to remember everything about the other, before they lose it all. Finally, she whispers her favorite words in his ear.

“I love you, Bucky.”

He hums contentedly and smiles. “I love you too. Don’t ever forget it, okay? I know I won’t.”

It takes every last drop of willpower for her not break down. Because he  _will_  forget. He will forget, and she will make certain that he does.

Rubbing her cheek against his, she presses her lips to the shell of his ear, giving him one more thing that the rest of the world cannot take. Something that is theirs, and theirs alone.

“You’re everything for me, Bucky Barnes. You’re the love of my life,” she murmurs, and he leans his head against her. When he opens his eyes, she finds an endless ocean of sadness pouring from the blue depths and he speaks quickly under his breath.

“Listen to me. Whatever happens, I need you to do something for me, okay?” The desperate urgency in his voice makes her heart skip. “No matter what happens, don’t you  _dare_  stay here. I can see it in your face honey, don’t you stay here, stuck in this room inside your head, thinking you could’ve done something different. You understand me?”

Swallowing hard, she tries to answer, but he cuts her off. The words are full of fear, holding a message he needs her to accept. “Please, I’m begging you. When you get out of here, you find a way to go on. Find a way to  _live_.”

Losing him again will break her. That fact is as certain as the sun rising in the east.

There’s no way she can do this again, but in her heart, she knows that’s not what he needs. He needs her to agree, he needs her to  _try_ , and if she has to send his mind into a graveyard of buried memories, at least she can do this one thing for him.

She owes their love that much.

“I will,” she says. “I promise, I will.”

“That’s my girl,” he whispers with a tired smile. Staring into his eyes, she does everything she can to memorize the love she finds there, before Bucky gives her a crooked smile and tells her one more secret. “You know what? I don’t regret anything that happened. If I had to do it all over, I wouldn’t change one damn thing. It all led me to you, and I’ll remember every piece of us to the end. Because this kind of love, it never leaves. Right?”

“No, it never leaves,” she echoes. Placing her hands on his cheeks, she kisses him full on the mouth, tasting blood and salt and love, trying with her whole heart to carve even a small bit of herself into his bones.

Breaking the kiss, her heart plummets at the sight of his sweet smile.

Blinking away her tears, she takes a deep breath.

And then she tears her entire world apart.

Surprise fills Bucky’s face when he feels the heat begin to pulse from her hands, when he sees the soft glow of white light from her fingers. Watching her in confusion, his lips part as though he wants to say something, but no words come. Concentrating harder than she ever has before, she gathers everything, all those beautiful memories that make Bucky Barnes the man he has become and she wipes them all away.

All his stories about the Howling Commandos. That spring day he caught a foul ball at a Dodgers game. Steve Rogers’ floppy blond hair shining in the summer sun at Coney Island. The way his mother sang while she baked, and the fairytales he read his sister before bed. How he felt looking in the mirror the first time he put on his uniform, pale and scared to death. Watching a brilliant red sun sinking in the ocean, the day he sailed for England. Every memory he has of her. The thrill of their first kiss and the way she held his arm when he walked her home from church  and the first time they made love and how nervous he felt asking her to marry him.

How  _god damn much_  he loves her.

Every colorful memory he owns, she siphons away. Nothing is left behind, because this time, she can take no chances.

The white light burns hotter, so bright Bucky squeezes his eyes closed and still she watches him through it all, until finally, finally,  _finally_  -

She lets go.

Bucky slumps unconscious, his chin tucked to his chest. Pressing one final kiss to his forehead, her silent tears splash to the floor. She wants to stay forever, to be there when he opens his eyes, to force herself back into this new life, to make him remember her. To make him remember who they are together.

My god. Oh my god,  _what has she_   _done_.

Before she can say a word, the guards rip him from her arms. Dragging him away, his head lolls to the side and the last thing she sees, before they exit the room, are Bucky’s eyes beginning to flutter open.

“Wait -“ she says, panic filling every last cell in her body, “no, please wait, don’t - please, where are you taking him?”

“He has work to do,” Richter says dismissively.

Sick with heartbreak and drowning in regret, she remains kneeling on the floor, and every last piece of her soul shatters.

 

*****

Day later, there’s a screech of metal, and her door bangs open.

Richter saunters in, a length of cloth folded over his arm. Behind him, is the Hydra guard who escorted her from her cell last time, his gun cocked and aimed.

Caked in dried mud and an obscene amount of blood, the bright blue of Bucky’s Howlie jacket is nearly unrecognizable. The left arm is mostly torn away, the thick material hanging in ragged strips below the elbow. With a grunt, Richter tears away a piece of fabric at the shoulder and tosses it at her.

“Here. Thought you might want this,” he says coldly.

At her feet, the cloth looks dark and dirty, but in the midst of grimy blue, she sees the gray wings Bucky had sewn into his jacket sleeve. She remembers tracing her fingers over them, asking what they meant. Bucky had grinned, his chest swelling with a bit of pride, before he wove tales for her about the Howling Commandos. He glossed over their missions and focused on the men instead, and she remembers how wonderfully he could tell a story. The small bits of humor he found amid the bleakness of war painted a bright world for her to see.

Now, she picks it up, touching the rusty-red smudges lining the edges of the wings. She looks up at him.

“Why?”

Richter says nothing, but a grim smile pulls at his lips. He draws out the pause, savoring the expectation in her face, before carelessly dropping a bomb.

“Zola lost him during a routine experiment. He coded on the table. Guess we haven’t made our soldiers as durable as we need just yet.”

This bomb, it finishes the job Steve’s telegram began. For the second time, she learns the love of her life is dead and now there is nothing but cold emptiness where her heart used to be.

“We no longer require your services. We have a new machine that should work just fine,” he tilts his head, looking down at her. “But thank you for your help.”

Spinning on his heel, he shoves the remains of the blue coat at the guard still waiting in the doorway.

“Burn it,” he orders. “And leave her here to rot.”

The door bangs shut and the lock clicks with a sickening finality.

 

*****

No food. No water.

For two days, she hears footsteps marching back and forth in front of her door. Something seems to be happening, but through it all, no one pays attention to the woman locked in the cell at the end of the hall, waiting to die.

In her dreams, she sees Bucky strapped to a table exactly like the one they used for her. Was he scared? Did he go willingly or did he fight? Did it happen quickly? Did it hurt? Did he realize what was happening before his heart stopped?

Was there any part of him, maybe buried deep down, that loved her to the end?

She dismisses that last thought. No, of course there wasn’t. She made sure of that fact.

In a strange way, she finds a perverse relief in Bucky’s death. At least this way, he will never know how she betrayed him.

Perhaps if there is an afterlife, someday she can find him there and beg his forgiveness.

On the morning of the third day, sunlight flows through the rectangular window near the ceiling and she waits on her bed. For someone to come.  _Anyone_. To save her. To kill her. Either would work, she’s not picky. Watching the slow crawl of sunlight move across the floor, she counts the minutes, until she notices something peculiar.

Silence.

Sitting up takes a massive effort and rising to her feet almost knocks her out. Knees wobbling dangerously, her sweaty hand presses to the wall for balance, and she stumbles to the door.

“Hello?” she croaks, but it comes as nothing more than a rough whisper. Wrapping her fingers around the bars of the door, she rests her forehead against the cold metal. Summoning her strength, she tries again. “Is anyone there?”

Silence.

No one answers. No lights illuminate the hallway. There is no hum of electricity, no sound of a distant radio playing, no raucous laughter. There is no one there.

So. They left her to die then.

Angry tears fill her eyes, and she bangs a weak fist on the door. Without expecting a solution, she grabs the door handle and rattles it, hot tears spilling over and streaking through the dirt on her cheeks.

But miraculously - the door opens.

Stepping cautiously into the doorway, she scans the hallway and finds nothing. Perplexed, she looks down and her confusion grows. Outside the door, a cloth bundle is propped against the wall. Crouching down, she hesitantly pulls at the loose knot and it falls open, revealing a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, two apples, and a cracked leather canteen full of water.

Common sense screams at her to  _think_ , but she throws caution to the wind. Grabbing the canteen with trembling fingers, she flips the lid and chugs the cold water. It has a dusty, alkaline taste, but she cries with relief. Tearing off a hunk of bread, she stuffs it in her mouth, her eyes drifting closed at the taste. It hits the hollowness in her belly so fast, she almost retches, but she manages to keep it down.

The rest, she wraps up in the cloth sack and hugs it to her chest.

She walks down the hall. Through a small office, down another hall.

With every step, she expects to be stopped. But nothing happens.

At the end of the hall, is a heavy black door. When she opens it, sunlight spills in and she takes a deep breath of fresh air.

From the outside, the base looks like a series of old buildings, but there is literally nothing else. No people. No vehicles. Nothing but the peppy chirp of birds warbling in the trees. For one brief moment, she stands in the morning light and thinks about giving up. Such a soothing thought.

But then the sound of Bucky’s voice fills her head.

_Find a way to live._

The years that follow will be filled with devastating sadness, but beneath it all, she will hold these words close to her heart. She can do this for him.

So, she starts walking.

Down the ruts of the narrow access road leading away from the building, one foot in front of the other. She anticipates bullets hitting her from behind, but nothing happens. On she walks, through a forest of trees, one step after another. Into the open, where the access road joins up with a small country lane. She turns left and keeps going. Five slow miles she traipses along, until a town appears.

On the edge of the main street, she sees a small grocery store and walks inside. Covered in grime, shivering from head to toe, she tries to speak, but instead, she collapses. An older woman looks up from behind the counter, and her curls of thick black hair bounce when she rushes around the front counter shouting in Italian for help.

For two weeks, she stays there recovering, but no one comes.

In that sleepy Italian town, she finally understands.

After everything she has done, after everything they stole from her, after they broke her one last time - it appears that Hydra really was finished with her.

With freedom should come relief, but that is an emotion reserved for saints, not sinners like her. What she has done, she can never undo.

She will live with that fact, from now until the end of her days.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was tough to write, but here we are at the end. Bucky makes a decision and the past is rarely what it seems to be. There’s a Band of Brothers reference in here, if you can spot it. An epilogue will be up next weekend!

**_MISSION REPORT_ **

_WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW._

_He doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t. But orders are orders. Tucking the white notebook into his coat pocket, he takes a deep breath._

_And he walks toward the little cabin._

*****

The bedroom is quiet. Kneeling on the bed, they face either other.

Staring blankly into his lap, Bucky is frozen in place. Across from him, all he can hear are her quick, short breaths, growing steadily faster the longer they sit in silence. Distantly, he notices his fingers are clenched so tight in the fabric of his threadbare sweatpants, they’re moments from ripping apart.

“Say something,” she finally whispers.

Bucky slowly looks up.

Blatant fear rests in her face, and it makes him want to wrap her in his arms. Soothe it away and tell her everything will be okay, that he understands what happened, and he knows why she did it and he loves her no matter what.

Those are the words he should give her. They sit on his tongue, ready to be used. And he wants to use them, he  _really really_  does. But he doesn’t.

Because right now, Bucky has never felt so god damn lost in his entire life.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks instead.

Shivering under the glare of his shocked disbelief, she fumbles her words. “I wanted to tell you Bucky, I  _did_  -“

She reaches for his arm and he involuntarily jerks away.

“But you  _didn’t_ ,” he interrupts, and she recoils at the betrayal in his voice. “You  _didn’t_  tell me.”

Licking her lips, she tries again.

“I wanted - Bucky, I wanted to tell you  _so damn much_. From the very beginning, but you were doing so well, and - and  _we_  were doing so well together, and I just wanted you to  _remember_  first. I wanted you to remember  _us_  first.”

Once again, she tries to touch him and once again, he wrenches his arm away.

“So, you lied, instead,” he says coldly.

Alarmed at the ice in his tone, she shakes her head. “No! I never lied to you Bucky, everything I told you was true. Everything about you and me, every single word, it was  _all true_ , you know that, you  _know_  it was, don’t - please don’t -“ she chokes on the words as they tumble free.

Her fingers reach for him again. He pulls back again.

“How the hell do you expect me to believe you? You left out the most important part of the god damn story!”

“I know,  _shit_ , I know I shouldn’t have, but I just - Bucky, you said before, you said it didn’t matter - you said it wasn’t - that it wasn’t my fault,  _please_!”

She reaches. He shies away.

Every time he withdraws from her touch, the light inside her dims. Finally, she stops trying. She tangles her fingers in her lap instead.

“That was - that was before I  _knew_  - you  _had_  to do that to those men, but - but I was - I was -  _how could you do that to me_?” He hates the way his voice rises hysterically, but he can’t stop it. The question is like a physical blow and she cowers from his words.

“Bucky, I’m so  _sorry_  -“

“You ruined my  _life_!” he shouts, and she quits breathing. “Everything I was, you just - you  _took_  it. Who I was, where I came from, what I  _believed_  - you broke it all. You broke  _me_.”

Shrinking into herself, she has no reply. Tears spill down her face as she accepts his anger.

What the hell is he supposed to do now?

Scrambling backward off the bed, Bucky finds himself riding the dangerous edge of a full-blown panic attack. Looking at her there, sitting in the pile of soft blankets where he held her and kissed her and -

Shaking fingers comb through the wild tangles of hair falling over his face, and he feels tiny scars scattered across his scalp. Physical residue of horrific memories he still cannot remember.

Gathering her courage, she tries to speak again, but he stops her.

“Don’t,” he says forcefully. “Just - don’t.”

Looking around the room, he sees the glowing red embers of the fire, sees snowflakes drifting by the window, sees the pile of his dirty socks in the corner and her small jewelry box propped open on the dresser. All these small fragments that make up their life.

Their life here. Their life  _together_.

It should be enough to rein him in. His heart wants it so much.

But apparently his brain has other ideas.

Spinning around, he goes to the closet and yanks the door open. Snatching up his duffel bag, he finds the pile of his neatly folded laundry tucked on the top shelf. Gathering everything, he stuffs it haphazard in the bag. Zipping it shut, he heads for the door.

“What are you doing? Bucky? Where are you going?” her voice rises in panic. Struggling off the bed, she follows him. “No no no, wait, please  _wait_! Please, Bucky, don’t leave,  _please_! Talk to me, tell me what I can do.”

It’s almost enough. The desperate plea nearly breaks him. Everything in him is screaming to stop, to drop the duffel bag and bury his face against her and cry until he’s empty. But he’s so god damn confused, he can barely see straight.

He forces himself to ignore her.

Rushing downstairs, he hears the soft thump of her bare feet chasing him, but he keeps going.

More pieces of their life together are strewn down below. Empty mugs with damp tea bags on the kitchen counter, a paperback book with one of his gum wrappers marking her page, the fluffy blanket Bucky wrapped around them both as they cuddled by the fire. Tiny remnants of a perfect life, a beautiful picture he never knew he craved, until he held it all in his perpetually mismatched hands.

Reaching the front door, Bucky shoves his feet into the boots he keeps lined up below the coat rack. Trembling fingers whip through the buckles and laces, and then he grabs his white jacket and jams his arms through. Without bothering to zip it up, he hefts his bag over his shoulder and pulls the door open.

Cold air swirls around him, the freshness of a beautiful morning spilling in.

With one foot outside, he abruptly halts. Breathing hard, his entire body vibrates under the strain of the anguish that sweeps through him.

Because he cannot help himself, he looks back.

Surrounded by the comforts of their home, there she stands. The love of his god damn  _life_ , hugging herself while she watches the man who promised to love her forever, as he walks out the door.

Bucky feels his heart thumping uncontrollably, smashing against his ribs,  _boom, boom, boom_. Screaming at him to stop and listen. To let her explain and forgive her. To love her unconditionally and forever.

His heart thumps harder,  _BOOM, BOOM, BOOM,_ and those sketchy memories that haunt his nightmares, the wash of red blood and the stench of black death, those painful colors that painted the life of the Winter Soldier, fill him with sick horror and it makes him dizzy.

“Please, Bucky,” she whispers. Broken. “Please stay. Don’t leave me.”

It takes every ounce of self-control he possesses, but he turns away. Slams the front door, hoists his bag over his shoulders, and leaps down the short flight of steps. With no plan other than escape, he bolts for the thick grove of pine trees opposite her house.

Knee deep drifts of snow blanket the yard, and he feels the icy bite of wet cold seeping through his pants as he trudges along, but it doesn’t matter. He keeps stomping until he reaches the cover of trees, where the thick white tapers away and the path is easier to navigate.

Breaking into a slow trot, he winds around the wide trunks of the silent forest. Now and then, he sniffs and angrily wipes away the tears that won’t seem to stop.

On and on he goes, his slow jog eventually changing to a flat out run. One mile turns into two and then into five. In the thin mountain air, his breath comes harsh and ragged as he runs faster and faster, away from the horrors of a past he can’t remember and the crushing disappointment he left on her face. On and on he runs, until suddenly, the terrain curves up, so he drops his head and sprints, scrabbling at slippery black rock. The duffel bag bounces crazily at his back and he loses his grip once, smashing his face against the icy granite. Swearing viciously, his nose gushing blood, he crawls back to his feet and keeps running.

Bucky climbs and climbs and climbs, until all of a sudden, he skids to a stop.

Spread out before him, is an alien world. Glittering white stretches into infinity, sawtooth mountain peaks clawing at the distant blue sky. In the open, it is fiercely cold, but he jerks off his stocking hat, sighing in relief at the feel of air on his blisteringly hot neck. Sweat slides down his back, pooling between his shoulder blades and he gulps down the dry air, relishing in the ache it forces into his lungs.

Folding his fingers atop his head, he tips his face to the dazzling sunshine. Slowly, his panting lessens. Slowly, he feels the wild anxiety dissipate. And slowly, he begins to understand what he’s done.

“Oh my god,” he exhales. Staring up into the deep blue sky, dread creeps up his spine. “What the fuck did I just do?”

Knees buckling, he falls hard, the sting of cold soaking through his pants. A shaking hand wipes away the blood still trickling from his nose and he closes his eyes.

Bucky Barnes will be the first to admit, sometimes he makes terrible decisions.

Sometimes they’re just normal terrible, like the time he ate four platefuls of spaghetti and then challenged Sam to a five-mile run. By mile two, he was puking up tomato sauce.

Sometimes they’re slightly more terrible, like the time he refused medical treatment and insisted on digging three bullets out of his thigh himself. He passed out near the end and cracked his head on the ceramic floor of the med bay.

Sometimes they’re pretty terrible, like all those times he forced himself to stand in a Hydra base and relieve every hideous memory that inevitably resurfaced. That just proves he’s an idiot.

But now and then, he does this. Makes such a monumentally terrible decision that nothing positive can come from it. And this one here just might be the most catastrophically stupid decision of his entire fucking life. He should have stayed. He should have dug his heels in and worked through this with her, but like a god damn coward, he ran.

“You dumb idiot sonofabitch,” he growls.

Above the whistle of wind whipping around, he hears a quiet  _chirp chirp_  sound and a striped chipmunk scurries past. The small creature stops when it sees him, popping up on its haunches and sniffing the air. Bright eyes watch him, and Bucky has the uncomfortable feeling of being judged.

“I really fucked that up, didn’t I?” he asks. The chipmunk twitches its fluffy tail in agreement and Bucky grunts. “I know, I just - I fuckin’ panicked. One minute I’m asking her to marry me and the next she’s telling me - well, you know.” The chipmunk tilts its head. “Okay, so maybe you  _don’t_  know, but believe me, it was insane.” Another  _chirp_ , another head tilt. Bucky groans and buries his face in his hands. “Jesus. You’re right. I’m a god damn  _idiot_.”

Shame flares red-hot in his chest. How could he have done this to her? Left their trust behind and walked away?

In the crisp morning air, clarity arrives like a clap of thunder.

Despite decades apart, despite every cruel twist of Fate, despite the unending brutality Hydra leveled against them both, despite everything in the world conspiring to keep them apart - nothing worked. With only muscle memory to guide them,  _somehow_ , against all odds, they found their way back to each other.

Because this right here, is what it means to love someone with every piece of your heart.

The simplicity of that realization brings a deep comfort to his soul. He knows then, exactly what he has to do.

“I have to go back,” he announces. Jumping to his feet, he grabs his bag and shrugs into the straps. “Tell her none of it matters. None of it  _does_  matter. I get why she did it, I would’ve done the same damn thing, if I thought I could save her.” Bucky nods at the chipmunk. “Thanks man.”

Turning around, he picks up his trail and he heads for home.

*****

The trek back seems shorter. Or maybe he’s just anxious to get back, but in no time at all, Bucky picks out the familiar markers that mean home is just over the horizon. Unable to contain himself, he starts to sprint.

Relief fills him when he plunges through the trees, finding the house exactly as he left it.

Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, water bubbles merrily in the nearby stream, the pile of wood he was chopping lays unfinished by the shed. Everything in its place, everything perfect, everything -

Wrong.

There is no discernible reason for it, but feeling is overpowering. It slams into him, like a punch to the face.

Something is  _wrong_.

Pulling up short, he goes completely still.

All those threats he imagined lurking in the darkness last night feel suddenly real, magnified in the morning sun. There are no screams, no cries, no blood, nothing that would indicate anything out of the ordinary, but still. Swinging his bag around, Bucky crouches in the snow and digs through his pack until his fingers find a gun. Shaking a round of bullets from the clip stashed inside his coat, he slips them into the chamber and snaps it shut. Rising slowly, he raises the gun, eyes darting back and forth across the quiet landscape. Picking his way carefully through the snow, he’s within a few hundred feet of the house when he sees it.

Footprints.

Coming from the opposite direction, leading in a straight line to her front door.

Bucky feels the ground disappear beneath his feet.

“Fuck,” he spits out. “Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_.”

Something suddenly crunches under his boot. Glancing down, he drops to one knee, his eyes tracking every direction, while he reaches blindly for whatever made that sound. Fingers touch a hard edge, and brushing away a dusting of snow, he picks up a white notebook.

Eyes still roaming cautiously, he balances it on his knee and flips it open.

Written at the top of every page, the words “MISSION REPORT” are ground into the paper. Thumbing through page after page, he finds shaky block letters in gray lead, short sentences and rambling comments and odd words jumping out at him.

_Krakow. Pain. New soldiers. Old signals. Pain. Electricity. Pain. Pain. Pain._

Utterly bewildered, Bucky flips to the last few pages.

—

**_MISSION REPORT:_ ** _CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT. WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR – ****_

—

**_MISSION REPORT:_ ** _CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT. WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –_

—

**_MISSION REPORT:_ ** _NEW OBJECTIVE IDENTIFIED. RECONNAISSANCE REQUIRED TO DETERMINE APPROPRIATE COURSE OF ACTION. OBSERVATION WILL CONTINUE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE._ ****

—

**_MISSION REPORT:_ ** _LAST MISSION PARAMETERS RECALLED AND RE-ACTIVATED. APPROPRIATE TOOLS COMMANDEERED TO ADDRESS ISSUES AND SECURE ADDITIONAL SUPPORT. SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT WILL BE UNDERTAKEN BEFORE PROCEEDING WITH FINAL ELIMINATION PLAN. ****_

—

**_MISSION REPORT:_ ** _SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT ESTABLISHED. AWAITING RESULTS. ****_

—

**_MISSION REPORT:_ ** _BOTH TARGETS UNEXPECTEDLY INFILTRATED BASE. UNABLE TO SEPARATE AND ADDRESS INDIVIDUALLY. WILL CONTINUE HOLDING PATTERN UNTIL OPPORTUNITY ARISES._ ****

—

**_MISSION REPORT:_ ** _WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW. ****_

—

Bucky reads it all twice, trying to make sense of the words. They look like diary entries, the barest details outlining the sketch of a person’s day.

Kind of like the notes Steve jots down sometimes, so he can fill in a more descriptive report later. Like the kind Sam sometimes writes in the notebook he tries to hide, so he can examine his own thoughts and mood swings. Like the kind Bucky sometimes marks on the back of grocery receipts, when he gets stuck inside his head and needs a way to set the anger free.

Mission reports are the hallmark of any good soldier.

_Any good soldier._

An idea suddenly pops into his brain. Insane, irrational, and entirely ludicrous.

Tucking the notebook into his pocket, he grits his teeth furiously and raises the gun again. Picking his way through the snow, he reaches the shoveled path and when he hits the front steps, his feet choose the places he already memorized, where the creaking whine of the wood is silenced.

Pressing his ear to the door, he strains to hear, but finds nothing. Praying he is dead wrong, Bucky turns the handle slowly and eases the door open. Stepping into the doorway, he finds himself momentarily snow-blind from the world of white, so he blinks quickly.

The inside world takes shape. All the basics of a comfortable life remain, just as he left them this morning.

A crackling fire. The smell of coffee. The hum of a fan. A low radio playing staticky jazz in the background.

In the dim light, the barrel of his gun finds the face of someone kneeling by the fireplace.

Except there are two people kneeling there.

She sits on her knees, her arms folded behind her back. Dressed in sweatpants and a heavy sweater, thick socks on her feet, she still shivers uncontrollably. Crouched behind her, digging a gun into her neck, is a familiar face, one Bucky recognizes from a blurry photograph.

“What kind of soldier leaves his home base completely unprotected?” Henry Lewis asks. His voice is low and hollow, guttural tones of a man who hasn’t spoken in a long time. “You failed to even lock the door, I walked right inside. I expect she thought I was you, she came running at the sound.”

The resemblance to the photos is there, with only slight differences. After years of electricity and experiments, his curly black hair is now a shock of white, illuminating his dark eyes. He looks like a young man, mid-30s at most, but the haunted look in his face speaks of decades of nightmares.

When she meets Bucky’s eyes, he sees dazed shock fill her features. Swallowing hard, she keeps her eyes focused on him and tries to speak.

“Henry, I know you’re upset. You should be,” she says quietly, never looking away from Bucky. “But he has nothing to do with this. Let him leave, and you and I can figure out what you need to do. Please.”

“No, I need him here,” Henry answers, his mouth at her ear. “He has to be here for this.”

Still aiming the gun at the pair, Bucky eyes his angle, gauging his chances of taking Henry down with a single shot. The mechanics of it bounce through his head and he comes up empty. He tries to get Henry talking while he strategizes.

“Lieutenant, how are you here?”

“How am I alive, you mean?” Henry clarifies. “That’s a long story. Without a happy ending, I’m afraid. Let’s just say the serum they gave me wasn’t quite as effective as yours, but it still covered the basics.”

Bucky glances to the photos scattered across the coffee table, of soldiers and experiments.

“So, you were one of the first, then,” he states. The gun in his hand is steady as he keeps it raised, still waiting for the right angle. “You volunteered?”

“Fuck you, I  _never_  fucking volunteered,” Henry snaps. “I never would have gotten involved if I knew what the hell they were.” Nostrils flaring angrily, his lips press into a tight line. “My unit, the men I trained and served with, all of them were dying out in Germany and there I was, stuck behind a god damn desk writing reports. They said they could fix my leg and I wanted a way back into the war.” His gaze flicks quickly to her. “I wanted her to be proud of me.”

Tears spill down her face at the comment. “Henry, I was always proud of the man you were,” she whispers.

Henry says nothing. Simply clenches his jaw, his eyes back on Bucky. When he speaks again, his voice is hard.

“When they put me under, it was 1959 and I was in the Ukraine. They left me there. Useless forgotten tech. No one thought twice about the old soldiers they kept in cold storage, but decades later the tech in the place went to shit and the cryo tank stopped working. I was the only one who woke up. That was in 2016.”

A bead of cold sweat drips into Bucky’s eye and he blinks it away, shuddering at the thought of returning to cryo. Of remaining locked in that cold darkness forever.

“What then? You went back to the old bases?” Bucky questions. His gun drifts a hair to the right, still searching for a shot, but Henry knows exactly what he’s doing. Tugging her closer, he digs the gun at her neck in deep and she flinches. Bucky swears under his breath and gives up the angle.

“At first, the only thing I remembered were the locations of the bases where I was stationed. I went back to all of them, launching distress signals and trying to find someone to help. But you and your friends were the only people who ever came.”

Christ. How fucking wrong could they have been? All this time, Bucky thought they were smashing Hydra’s broken tech, but there was so much they missed.

“We thought it was the technology,” Bucky says tightly. “Never found anything at the bases, thought they were all breaking down.”

“No,” Henry says. “I was always good at hiding.” A tiny, reluctant smile curves his lips. “The day you were shot, when she found you, I was sitting in the bar. You walked right by me. Barely glanced in my direction.”

Bucky has an epiphany then, remembering the occupants of the bar with perfect clarity. Specifically, a lanky man with a ragged fur hood drawn around his face, one hand encased in a black wool glove - the other hand splayed bare on the table.

“The glove,” he says slowly. “The one I found up at the base. That was you.”

Henry nods once. Stares searchingly at Bucky.

“I’ve been in the shadows of your life Barnes. The night she wiped you, I was there for that as well. They sent me to fetch her for the procedure.” Henry seems confused for a moment. “I think they were testing me. To see if I remembered.”

“Oh,” she breathes, realization dawning. “I saw you hesitate, when you came into the cell. I remember now.” Henry twitches at her statement.

“I know,” he says sharply. “You  _always_  remember. The rest of us don’t have that luxury.”

Bucky sees her face crumple at the words. He feels a flash of anger at the insensitivity.

“That’s enough,” he says sharply. “Lieutenant, why are you here? What do you want?”

Henry doesn’t answer. He changes the subject.

“I stood there in that room while the two of you said goodbye. I watched her comfort you. Everyone could see how much she loved you. It made me so fucking  _angry_ and I couldn’t say anything, they wouldn’t let me. But I couldn’t understand why she was with someone else. She was supposed to love me, that’s why she left me those memories of her.”

At the hurt in his voice, she tries to turn to face him, but he won’t let her move. “They told me you  _died_ , Henry. They said they killed you, I didn’t  _know_. I’m so sorry I didn’t know.”

Henry talks to her now, his voice a little lower. “The last day we were at the base, before we moved out, I snuck away and left food by your door. Unlocked in in case you wanted to leave. I had no clue why I was doing it, but something told me that I should. So, I did.”

“You saved my life,” she says, closing her eyes. “ _Thank you_  for saving my life.”

“I had to,” he replies softly. “It was like I had to do it.”

There, for a brief, shining moment, Bucky sees the gun begin to lower. But then Henry remembers himself, remembers the anger he keeps inside, and he rolls his shoulders back and presses it harder against her.

Watching him closely, Bucky tries again.

“You still haven’t answered the question. Why are you here?” Still, Henry says nothing. Frustrated, Bucky tries something else. “Fine. Then do you know what happened to Richter?”

Henry’s lip curls at the question.

“I killed him.”

Her eyes fly open at the words, palpable relief in her face.

“Not that any of us here are sad about that,” Bucky says, “but why?”

“Because he was an asshole who deserved it,” Henry sneers. “I had more control after a mission and I started to remember things about him. Got so mad, I gut-shot him, wanted him to suffer.” His eyes narrow and he muses quietly to himself. “I never should have done it that way.”

Nerves tensing at the comment, Bucky grips his gun a little tighter. “Why? Why was that a bad thing?”

“He was still alive when I went over to him. He said something to me.”

“What did he say?” There is no answer and Bucky asks again. “Lieutenant. What did he say to you?”

Henry sits up straighter, his gun still pressed to her skin and he glares at Bucky. “He gave me one more mission.”

“And? What was it?”

No answer. Instead, Henry fists his hand in the back of her sweater and pulls her to her feet. Using her as a shield, he moves closer to the door.

“Lieutenant,” Bucky barks. “Dammit, what was the last mission you received?”

Still no answer. Henry holds her tight against him and she stares mutely back at Bucky.

The love he sees there takes his breath away.

When Henry finally speaks again, the words are harsh. “She did this to both of us, you understand that right? Everything that happened, it was because of her.”

“No,” Bucky says fiercely. “She had no choice. They gave her no choice. Surely you understand that. You have to see that.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Maybe. But I love her,” Bucky says simply. “I’ve loved her every day since I was twenty-seven years old. Nothing can change that.”

“Sometimes,” Henry says wearily, “it’s the things we love most, that destroy us.”

Bucky sees the devastation in her expression at those words. But still there, steadfast beneath it all, is that all-consuming love. The kind that doesn’t give up.

She loves him. He loves her. Nothing else matters.

“She could take every last memory again and it wouldn’t change anything,” he says, speaking to her now. “I told her, this love would never leave, and I meant that. If I lose it all again, I’d still find my way back to her.”

There is pity in the gaze Henry levels at him. Bucky glares defiantly back and behind Henry’s dark eyes, is a minuscule shift. A hint of relief appears, before quickly fading.

“Well. Okay. I guess that’s it then,” Henry says calmly.

“Wait,” Bucky says quickly. “Hang on, you still haven’t - tell me about your final mission.”

Without replying, Henry tucks he against him and shuffles toward the front door. Bucky tries to come closer, but he shakes his head warningly and shoves the gun into her harder. Bucky keeps his distance.

The door is still open, and Henry nudges it further, until they’re backing out onto the porch. There he pauses, giving Bucky a hard look.

“Think about it. You know exactly what the mission was,” Henry says flatly, and Bucky feels his stomach plummet. “I have to end this now.”

Wrapping one arm around her waist, Henry lifts her down the stairs, the gun still tight against her. Like a magnet, Bucky follows, the gun in his hands now coated in slick sweat.

Out in the icy world, Henry keeps going backward, pulling her through the snow. Bucky can see her shivering violently now, the wet cold soaking through her socks and thin sweatpants. Further and further he drags her, Bucky stalking every move, his throat clogged with fear.

Finally, they stop.

“Henry,” she says, her voice cracking. “Henry I’m sorry. I’m  _so sorry_  for everything.”

“I know you are,” he says gently. Kissing her temple tenderly, he looks back at Bucky and places the gun carefully to the exact same place his lips just touched. She chokes back a sob.

“Lieutenant put the god damn gun down,” Bucky calls, fighting to keep his voice even. “I can help you. Let me help you.”

“No, you can’t,” Henry says calmly. One long, thin finger caresses the trigger and then blue eyes meet bottomless black ones.

What he sees, cuts Bucky Barnes down to the bone.

The pleading expression on Henry’s face is something Bucky knows intimately. How many times through the years did he give that same look to other people? Handlers and henchmen and horror-struck victims. The look is gut wrenching desperation, the kind that begs for one single thing above all others.

This is the look of someone asking for death.

 _Please_ , it says.  _Kill me_ , it says.

“No,” Bucky says urgently, desperation soaking into the words. “God dammit, don’t - don’t make me do this.”

“You know I have to,” Henry says and in the cold mountain air, the finality of his words is obvious.

“Lieutenant,” Bucky grits out and Henry tightens his arm around her.

“ _She’s_  my mission,” he whispers.

There it is. This cannot end until the mission is complete. Years of training, brainwashing, torture. All of it culminating in the burning desire to complete the given mission, no matter the cost. Bucky knows that feeling like no other.

“Please,” Bucky croaks out one final time. “Put the gun down, I’m - I’m begging you. I know you don’t want to hurt her.”

“No. I don’t,” Henry agrees. But then his finger squeezes tighter on the trigger and Bucky sees him silently mouthing two words.

“ _Do it_.”

One man squeezes a trigger. Another man takes the hit.

The sound of the bullet making contact is jarring. During the war, Bucky learned to hide the flinch, to keep the stoic mask in place with every kill, but it roils his gut all the same. Across from him, Henry Lewis drops like a marionette cut from its strings. The gun falls harmlessly by his side and in death, his lips curve up in a relieved smile.

Bucky waits a beat, before throwing his gun aside and running for her. There’s blood splattered on her clothes and across the side of her face, but she’s reaching for him and he sweeps her into his arms as she tumbles forward.

The echoing ricochet of the gunshot ripples away and world is silent for a fleeting moment, before the birds resume their bright chatter. Burying her face against his jacket, she clings to him and she  _breaks_. Great heaving sobs rip from her throat, ugly sounds of absolute dejection, of fear and relief and heartbroken sadness. Cradling her in the snow, Bucky rocks her against him and lets her cry.

“It’s okay,” he keeps saying, over and over. Finally, he scoops her up and carries her back toward the house. “It’s okay honey, I’m here. I won’t let go.”

*****

Deep in the heart of the forest, where the snow struggles to reach, Bucky stops walking.

Easing down the body from his shoulder, he unstraps the shovel from his back and starts to dig. Once he breaks through dead pine needles and the first frozen layer of dirt, the rest is easy. Through the years, he’s gotten good at digging graves.

As he digs, he thinks.

This man, with serum pumping through his veins, was one of the world’s first super soldiers. His body and blood would be a veritable gold mine of information, every scientist on the planet would be dying to get their hands on him, slice him apart and peek inside. Find out what made him tick. Perhaps he should have brought the authorities in for this one, there was so much science to learn, so much to discover.

But Bucky thinks about dignity and honor. About what it means to be a soldier, back then and even today.

And he says fuck it.

Instead, he carries Lieutenant Henry Lewis, of the British Army’s 506th battalion, to the base of a towering pine tree in the mountains of France and gives him a real burial. One fit for a soldier.

Out here, he digs alone. Back at the cabin, she had said her goodbyes. Standing on the porch, he gave them privacy, watching from a distance as she spoke to Henry, occasionally pausing to think, to wipe her eyes. When she placed a hand on the cold body wrapped carefully in her softest pair of bed linens, she squeezed his arm and smiled. Bucky never plans to ask what she said in that goodbye. That was for them alone, and he knows that every love story deserves a proper ending. He would never begrudge them theirs.

An hour later, he tamps down the mound of dirt. Dropping the shovel he sighs, clapping the rough texture of earth from his fingers. Tilting his head back, he looks up to find streaks of purple and red filtering through the thick branches soaring overhead.

 _Color_ , he thinks.  _Painting a new memory_. This is one he plans to keep to himself. Life is funny like that sometimes.

Death always brings sadness, but there is beauty in one thing. For Henry, all those vibrant memories that made up his life will live on, held in her hands, never to be forgotten. Bucky smiles when he realizes the same can be said for him. The memories of his past held tight in her hands, accessible any time he needs. But all he really wants, is the chance to create new memories together. The past is done, he just wants a  _future_  with her.

And he gets one. She said yes.

He’s so damn lucky.

Darkness begins to descend, and he feels that aching pull toward home. But before he leaves, Bucky thinks of one last detail.

There is no gravestone here, this soldier will not rest among that familiar sea of identical white stone, each inscribed with those key details. Name. Rank. Military brand. Birth. Death. Those final black and white bits gifted to every soldier, forgetting the unending sea of color of their lives.

Slipping a knife from his boot, he crouches down and digs his blade into the tree. With a few twists of his wrist, he carves a rough cross deep into the base of the tree trunk. He gazes at the small token for a minute, before sliding the knife back into his boot.

Standing with an inaudible sigh, he backs away. Straightens himself up. Snaps his feet together and offers a sharp salute to the unmarked grave.

“Rest easy, Soldier,” he murmurs.

And then Sergeant Bucky Barnes turns and heads home.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we have a visit from a very hungry super soldier, an enormous helping of domestic bliss, and an unexpected surprise for Bucky. Thank you to everyone who stuck with me on this little adventure. I appreciate every bit of encouragement and support, and I hope you enjoy the end! 
> 
> If you’re interested in the song the boys are whistling, it’s a war song from 1942 “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” You can find it on Spotify.

*****

****_One month later_ ** **

Out by the woodshed, Bucky lifts the hem of his shirt and wipes the sweat from his face. Sorting through the pile of wood, he finds the best piece, balancing it on the chopping block. With an easy swing, the sharp blade arcs through the air and the pieces tumble into the growing pile.

Chopping wood seems unnecessary this late in the season, but he likes the work. Manual labor feels cathartic, and he relishes the pull of his muscles with each swing. Besides, even though he runs hot, he knows she doesn’t. If he has to put in some elbow grease to keep her warm, he’s happy to do it.

Spring is so tantalizingly close, he can almost  _taste_  it.

More and more of the ever-present world of white disappears daily, the shining sun turning the world beyond the cabin into a slushy mess of mud. So muddy in fact, they’ve gotten her truck stuck twice.

The first time they got it out no problem, but the second time - Bucky has  _that_  memory tucked away forever. While the wheels spun uselessly, he got out to push, which was a nice idea in theory. Until the truck leapt forward and he face planted in the mud. When she hit the brakes and jumped out, she ran around back to find him staggering to his feet, covered head to toe in black muck.

Of course, her surprised laughter turned to shrieking when he chased her through the slop until he caught her, picked her up, and threw her in a snowbank, his fingers tickling the entire time. They rode home dripping wet and covered in mud, barely able to stop laughing. When they arrived, Bucky pulled her into the shower with him until they were both perfectly clean and  _thoroughly_  interested in getting dirty again.

Yes, spring is a magical time.

Life feels  _new_. After a long, cold, dark winter, he can finally see the other side and everything it offers. It’s like being born again, his life with her brimming with hope.

Taking a deep breath of the clean air, he selects another chunk of wood.

Above the sharp  _thwack_  of the ax, he hears a faint sound floating on the breeze.

Shading his eyes, he sees a figure walking along the road. Even from here, he sees a bright red stocking hat pulled low over his head, a hitchhiker’s bag strapped to his back. There is a brief flutter of nerves, before his stomach eases. The slope of broad shoulders and bouncing walk are telltale signs, but then he hears the whistle of a familiar song. Embedding the ax into the chopping block with a dull  _thunk_ , he whistles the tune in return. Strange words he unconsciously knows from another time.

 

_Praise the Lord, we’re on a mighty mission_

_All aboard, we ain’t a-goin fishin’_

_Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition_

_And we’ll all stay free_

Dusting off his hands, Bucky ambles down to meet the man, a relaxed grin on his face.

“Still singing that damn song?” Bucky greets him. “Anyone tell you the war is over?”

Steve Rogers pulls off his stocking hat with a theatrical groan and uses it to mop the sweat from his face.

“Classics never die,” he huffs. Running sweaty fingers through snarls of golden hair, it sticks straight up in an awkward mohawk. “God damn, this was a fuckin’ walk. You got anything to eat? I’m starving.”

Grabbing Steve in a giant bear hug, Bucky lifts him off his feet and Steve squawks in protest.

“You’re such a little shit. Come inside. Got someone you need to see.”

*****

On the porch, Bucky removes his mud-covered boots and neatly lines them up beside the front door; raising his eyebrows, he points for Steve to do the same. Steve grins at the domesticity and follows suit, before following him inside.

“Hey darlin’?” Bucky calls and there’s an answering shout from above.

Dressed in old wellies, jeans, and a knobby grey fisherman’s sweater she appears, trying to zip up her jacket as she trots down the stairs.

“Buck, if you actually want potato soup tonight, I have to go into town. I didn’t realize when you said you ate all the bacon, you  _literally_  ate all the bacon. There were three pounds of it, how did you even -” looking up, she stops.

Astonishment floods Steve’s face when he sees her, but he schools it quickly. Standing up straighter, he nervously tries to smooth his hair, before eventually recognizing the futility and shoving his hands in his pockets. He gives her a bashful smile instead.

“Hey. I’m, uh, sorry for just showing up. Probably should have called, I just -”

The words are struck from his lungs when she bounds forward and throws her arms around him, knocking him back a step. Steve hugs her tight, glancing in surprise at Bucky who looks on fondly.

“You never have to call, Captain Rogers. You’re always welcome.”

“Christ, no,” Steve grimaces when he releases her. “Call me Steve, please. Get enough of that Captain bullshit at home.” Catching himself, he looks momentarily horrified. “Shit, I mean  _shoot_ , sorry, pardon my language.”

“Please,” she says with a laugh. Elbowing Bucky, she winks. “Let’s not pretend I haven’t heard worse from him.”

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky wraps a playful arm around her neck. “I  _told_  you, it’s how I spice up my vocabulary. Science says swearing makes me smart.”

Rolling her eyes, she pokes her fingers into his belly and he grunts breathlessly.

“God, you two are adorable,” Steve says seriously. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”

Placing his whole hand over Steve’s face, Bucky shoves him away while she laughs, her arm curving around his waist.

“Want me to go warm up the truck? Pull it around for you?” Bucky asks, and she kisses his cheek.

“No, I’m good. Stay here and catch up. Maybe get Steve some food, I’d hate for him to starve,” she says.

“I love her,” Steve stage whispers.

Grabbing a bundle of tote bags, she heads outside, stomping carelessly through the muddy yard. On the sunny porch, the two men stand shoulder to shoulder, waving as she drives the clunky old truck down toward town. Once it disappears, Bucky turns to Steve and claps him on the back.

“Come on asshole, I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

*****

One carton of eggs and a loaf of bread later, they sit on the porch with steaming cups of coffee. Bucky tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. Steve sits back in his chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

“It all sounds insane, doesn’t it?” Bucky asks quietly.

Fiddling with his coffee cup, Steve scratches absently at his beard. “Maybe. Maybe not. We always knew there were others. Whatever they did to him, it wasn’t perfect, but it must’ve been enough for him to survive. Whatever survive means.”

“Yeah. I guess so. ”

Taking a long drink of coffee, Steve frowns at his boots before looking up to Bucky. “So, you buried him then?”

There’s a defiant edge to Bucky’s voice when he responds.

“Just felt right. He was a soldier, not a lab rat.”

Steve shrugs casually as he sits forward. “I get it, don’t need to convince me. We don’t have to tell anyone.”

Amused at the blatant lack of adherence to the precious world of protocol, Bucky gasps.

“Goodness gracious, I’m clutching my fuckin’ pearls. Did I just convince Captain America to commit treason?”

“Well you always were a terrible influence. So many bad decisions, all because of you,” Steve says loftily.

“You’re so full of shit,” Bucky laughs. Steve grins wickedly, knowing full well  _all_  their youthful indiscretions came from his ridiculous decisions; not that he’ll ever admit that one to Bucky.

At the thought of their past though - it makes him wonder.

“Can I ask something?”

“Hit me,” Bucky says easily. There are a couple minutes of silence, while Steve tries to find the words he wants.

“When she wipes memories, that’s - that’s it? They’re gone for good? We couldn’t - like, there’s no chance of getting them back?”

Bucky smiles ruefully. “No. I was curious, so I asked. But she said it was absolute. Looked so miserable when she told me, I’m sure as shit not mentioning it again. Besides,” he contemplates the blue sky beyond the porch railing, “it doesn’t matter. What do I need all that for anyway? Got her. Got you. That’s enough.”

The relief in Steve’s reply is palpable. “Good. I hated your dumbass running around trying to dig up the past.”

“Me too,” Bucky sighs. “Only did it ‘cause I thought I should. But now - I’m just worrying about the future. Those are the only memories I need.”

They sit in companionable silence, gazing out into the cool morning. In the treetops, birds chatter back and forth, and Steve feels himself relax. An unfamiliar peacefulness steals over him, filling him from head to toe; he almost doesn’t hear the quiet question.

“Stevie?” Looking sideways, he finds Bucky watching him calmly. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m tired. Just want a normal life, a home with her. Something quiet. Is that - will that be okay?”

The hesitancy in Bucky’s voice hits Steve like a fist to the face. Turning away, he blinks back tears and clears his throat.

“Yeah. Yeah, Buck. Of course that’s okay.”

That unspoken weight always dragging Bucky down disappears. With Steve’s words, the decades seem to fall away and  _there_  - the fleeting image of Sergeant James Barnes flashes across his features. Lighter. Softer. Carefree and full of laughter, wanting nothing more than to hang up his boots and find a warm home with the girl he loves.

“Thanks,” Bucky whispers looking back into the clear morning, a contented smile on his lips.

With the crisp breeze swirling around them, the soldiers sit in silence. One light haired and one dark, with two matching pairs of blue eyes, and two gigantic hearts.

*****

The sun is just beginning to sink when Bucky announces he’s going to go clean up the woodpile before it gets dark. The night air blows sharp when he opens the door, ushering in the wintery chill that still insists on arriving when darkness falls.

“Nah, stay here and catch up,” he urges, when Steve goes to grab his jacket. “It’ll just take me a few minutes.”

“Thanks love,” she murmurs and Bucky beams at the pet name, a happy bounce in his step as he heads outside. Grinning at Steve, she goes to the refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of beer from the depths, popping the tops and handing one to him.

“Cheers,” she says, clinking them together and he nods shyly. Pulling out knives and cutting boards and stock pots and skillets, she assembles everything for the potato soup Bucky begs her to make at least once a week. Salted water is simmering on the stovetop, before Steve finally speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Scrubbing potatoes, she looks up in surprise. “Sorry for what?”

Steeling his nerves, Steve frowns. “For not coming back. For letting you deal with his death alone. Always promised him, if something happened, I’d do my best to take care of you. And then I just -” he breaks off.

Wiping her hands on a towel, she reaches over the counter and squeezes his hand. “You just saved the world,” she says gently.

Swallowing hard, Steve looks down. “Still. My best friend’s girl, and I let her down. I let both of you down.”

Releasing his hand, she picks up her knife and starts dicing the potatoes.

“No, you didn’t. If I’ve learned nothing else in this life, it’s that you can’t stay in the past. What’s done is done, and now we move on. We’re all here now, Steve,” she says quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

Taking a deep breath, Steve lets the tension of his apology melt away. “He always said you were smart.”

“Hmmm, did he now?” she says with a mischievous grin and Steve can’t help the responding smile; it feels infectious.

The kitchen radio plays in the background, filling the small kitchen with the punchy sound of trumpets and piano, the world of old French jazz. Steve watches her cook, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“How come - how come you didn’t call? Didn’t tell us you were here?”

Without replying, she lays out slices of bacon and starts chopping. Immersed in her task, it takes her a minute to respond.

“When I heard they found you, I almost came to New York. But then, I imagined telling you what happened and - I was too ashamed.” Setting the knife down, she looks up and he sees deep sadness in her eyes. “The last time I saw him, he had no clue who I was, and I had no idea if he was still alive. It all seemed impossible. And then I saw him come back, and I just - you were with him and I was so relieved. He had you. I knew you’d do everything in your power to help him recover. After what I did, I didn’t think I should be part of that.”

Canting her head down, he sees her shoulders slump slightly. Steve knows that feeling better than anyone, what it means when you can’t save someone. Particularly when you can’t save Bucky Barnes.

“Back then, you saved him. During the war. I hope you understand, I hope you know.”

She doesn’t speak, but finally looks up. “Know what?”

He gives her a gentle smile. “How much he loved you. Never shut up about it. Used to drive us all crazy with all his sighing and his mooning around.”

The brilliant smile she gives him lights up her whole face and Steve feels his own lips curve in response. Both of them automatically glance toward the front door when they hear Bucky’s boots clomping up the porch steps.

“I know,” she says, her eyes shining bright. “He tells me every day.”

*****

Steve has more than a thousand stories about Bucky, from growing up in Brooklyn to traipsing across the European front to all their avenging these past few years, and unfortunately for Bucky, Steve seems  _dead set_  on relaying every stupid thing Bucky’s ever done. The worst part is, he can’t even refute the stories - Steve could be making everything up, and Bucky can’t even call him out on it.

A fact he continually points out and a fact Steve blithely dismisses.

“Trust me,” he says with a sage nod. “Captain America would never lie.”

“That is the biggest crock of shit I ever heard,” Bucky states. He looks mildly put out when she shushes him.

“Hush Bucky, I need to hear this story.”

“Uh, no you most certainly do  _not_ ,” he replies, as Steve tells about the time him, Bucky, and Sam were stuck in a safe house in Mexico and every time Bucky went to sleep, Sam moved everything in the apartment three inches before convincing Bucky the place was haunted.

“Well for fuck’s sake, there are aliens aren’t there?” Bucky exclaims. “Why the hell not ghosts?”

Scooping up a huge spoonful of soup, Steve swallows it down and gives him a serious look. “That’s true Buck. And that’s why I supported your idea of having a séance to contact the ghost. It seemed like the sensible thing to do.”

“I hate your face so hard. Remind me why you’re here again?” Bucky groans. Leaning back, he slings an arm around her chair and tucks his face against her neck. “Don’t believe anything he says. He lies,” his plea is muffled.

Patting his head, she scratches her fingers in his hair just like he likes, and he hums delightedly. “Don’t worry, I think you’re very adorable.”

“I  _am_  very adorable,” Bucky mumbles.

Lifting up his bowl, Steve slurps down the rest of his soup; smacking his lips, he gives them a mysterious smile. “Actually, there  _was_  another reason I came to visit.”

Bucky pulls away from her and glares at him. “Was it to destroy my happiness?”

“No, that’s just a fringe benefit,” Steve says cheerfully. Shoving away from the table, he goes to his oversized backpack and starts digging. Pulling something free, he comes back to the table and sets a cloth bag in front of Bucky.

“It’s a bag,” Bucky deadpans. “Inside a bag.”

“Smartass. Open it.”

Wiggling his eyebrows at her, Bucky un-cinches the bag and pulls out a leather satchel.

“It’s a bag, inside a bag, inside - a bag.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re hilarious?”

“Literally everyone who’s met me,” Bucky says with a grin. Glancing curiously at the worn brown leather, his smile begins to fade. Something about the bag seems insanely familiar, and he racks his brain -

And he catches his breath. Wide-eyed, he looks back up at Steve.

“Wait. Is this -“

“Yep,” Steve says, eyes sparkling. “You’d left it back at the base camp, must’ve gotten stuck in some of the camp containers they shipped to headquarters. Anyway, I spent the last three weeks banging around the SHIELD archives trying to see if I could find anything - there’s so much shit down there by the way, like an episode of hoarders - and then I was digging through this moldy ass box, and there it was.”

“My bag,” Bucky marvels. Excitement fills his face, bright sunrise in the evening. “From the war, from before. All my stuff.”

“All your memories,” she says breathlessly, squeezing his thigh.

“Go on,” Steve encourages. “Open the damn thing, I’m dying to know what the hell you kept in there. You never let me see anything.”

The leather straps are fastened tight, decades of moisture and dust creating a concrete knot that takes several minutes to unravel. It creaks irritably when it finally gives way and Bucky tugs it open. One by one, he pulls out items.

A book appears first. Front cover torn, they see a copy of ‘ _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ ’, one of the compact armed service editions published for soldiers. Some of the pages are stuck together and as he thumbs through it, Bucky sees familiar handwriting. Notes he scribbled in the margins, passages he underlined. Words and phrases pop out like friendly messages from another life. Flipping toward the end, he finds his favorite line, one that caught his fancy when he read the book again last year.

“Dear God,” he reads, voice wobbling slightly, “let me be something, every minute of every hour of my life.”

He touches the words with a cautious metal finger and looks up to find her watching him, a soft look in her eyes. Leaning over, he gives her a kiss and she brushes his hair back.

“You were always something, no question about that,” she says and Bucky smiles.

The next item is a thick sheaf of papers. Folded into neat rectangles are a set of maps, the ones he and Steve received from the Priest in her village, before they headed out on that last mission.

“Oops,” Steve says sheepishly. “Guess we never did get those back to the church.”

Two white, army issued packs of cigarettes follow; when Bucky tips out a Lucky Strike, it crumbles to powder in his fingers. His silver lighter is next, scales of brownish-red rest covering one side. As he tries to light it, the coils give a harsh screech.

“Okay, I was gonna give up smoking anyway,” he shrugs.

When he pulls out a dented flask and unscrews the cap, a faint wisp of whiskey floats out. Steve makes a gagging noise and shudders.

“Holy hell, I remember that garbage. Dugan bought it off a medic at a field hospital in Germany. Cross my heart, it was the worst shit I ever tasted. Gave me nightmares.”

“I remember it too,” she pipes up, looking slightly nauseated. “He convinced me to try it once and I haven’t tried whiskey since.”

Bucky grins at them both and plunges his hand into the bag again, this time, jerking back with a curse. Cautiously, he reaches in again and discovers an open switchblade. Carved below the marble handle in flaking gold are the letters  _JBB_.

“Becca gave that to you, before you shipped out,” Steve says quietly. “She sold her pearl earrings to buy it.”

Rubbing the white marble gingerly, Bucky gently folds down the blade and sets it carefully aside. It hurts for a minute, and his throat works hard to swallow down the emotion.

“Anything else in there?” she nudges lightly, and he shakes himself from the reverie.

Reaching into the bag, his hand bumps something. Buried at the bottom, he feels a soft bundle, a rectangular parcel wrapped in old green cloth. When he pulls it free, he has to unwind it several times before they discover what lies beneath.

Bucky blinks when he sees it, his heart leaping at her soft exclamation.

“My letters,” she says, wrapping her arm around him and curling closer.

“Your letters,” he repeats faintly. Sudden tears fill his eyes and he surreptitiously wipes them away, gruffly clearing his throat.

Handling the paper reverently, he brushes his fingers over the faded handwriting. The whole bundle is tied together with a broken boot lace, and it takes a few tugs before it releases.

Eleven letters.

Eleven letters, written just for him. Eleven of his very own memories, real and tangible and full of her love. Something he  _knows_  he kept in his coat pocket every day, drawing comfort and strength from her words, while he battled through the horrors of that unending war.

Unfolding the first one, he takes a deep breath.

 

_10 March 1944_

_Dear Jimmy,_

_I wanted to write this on your birthday, so I could fill it full of all the things I wish we could do, if you were here. Maybe next year, everything will be possible. The war will be over, and your day would look something like this._

_We could spend it in Paris, how lovely that might be! We could sleep in, no need to get up early. I might wake you up with a kiss, one on your cheek, then on your nose, then on your lips, and then I’d make you breakfast in bed, strong coffee and fried eggs and sizzling slices of bacon and fresh croissants, and we could spend the morning reading the papers and laying in the sun. Then we might go for walk down by the Seine, see the bridges and the booksellers, throw coins in the river and make wishes. Eat chocolate cake and drink bottles of wine. Whatever your heart desires my love, it would be your day. Maybe that night, we would be walking home, and hear a musician playing in the streets and we could stop and dance. Just you and me, holding each other in the moonlight._

_And when we get home, I think I’ll take you upstairs to soft sheets and soft pillows and all kinds of things that are rather inappropriate for this letter, but I can certainly tell you one thing - sleep would not be on our minds._

_Something to dream about for next year._

_But if you remember nothing else on your birthday, I hope you will remember there’s a girl in France who loves you with all her heart._

 

_6 June 1944_

_…and please don’t ever tell Steve, but I laughed forever at your letter. Such a demure, solemn man when I met him, I keep picturing him covered in mud and so frustrated with all of you! I do hope his knees are feeling better, give him a hug from me._

_Sending you all my love, now and always._

 

_19 August 1944_

_Dear Jimmy,_

_I’ve never been to a drive-in movie, but I must tell you, I think it sounds wonderful. I have no doubt we could show those kids a thing or two, because the simple truth is that I could spend my entire life kissing you. There would be no need to ever stop, I know that much._

_The days of sunlight are long now, and so often I lay out in the field behind the house, where the grass grows tall and the world smells like wildflowers, and I think of you until long after the stars appear. The sweet taste of your lips, the rough feel of your hands, the sound of your voice when you say my name. How much I love the red highlights in your beard and the dimple in your chin and the way you purr like a house-cat when I scratch my fingers through your hair. Everything you are, your kind heart and your curious soul, it fills me with a wanting I cannot explain._

_Do you know, when I fall sleep, your face is the last thing on my mind? Sometimes I still believe this is a God, because He lets you into my dreams every single night._

 

_30 December 1944_

_My love,_

_Just this morning, I let you go again. Back into this wretched war. It feels unforgivable, letting you leave. My heart fled with you and I admit, tonight I am having trouble remembering to breath._

_You are the one thing that gets me through everything. Isn’t that so strange? I had no idea my heart missed you, until the day we met. There are so many things I want to say to you. Things I want you to know about me, who I was and who I am. So many things I want to learn about you._

_But now, if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost hear your voice. It’s there in that lost place between sleep and awake, where you tell me good night darling, that Brooklyn drawl coloring your words._

_There is nothing I want more than a life with you. Sitting on the porch while the sun sets, holding your hand. Falling asleep wrapped in your arms. Loving you until there is nothing but grey left in your hair. I miss you so much. Please, please, please come home soon._

 

Resting her head on Bucky’s shoulder as he reads, she follows along in silence, reliving every word, every phrase, every bit of punctuation. How familiar it seems, even after all this time.

When Bucky finally sets the last letter down, he turns to her. Tipping his head down, he touches his forehead to hers and closes his eyes; cradling his face in her hands, she rubs her thumb over his lips. Neither one speaks. Old letters and faded memories and quiet breaths are the only words they need.

*****

The evening is late when Steve flops on the couch and gets comfortable. Digging through the hall closet, Bucky returns with a couple pillows and a fuzzy blanket and tosses them over.

“Alright Rogers. You need a teddy bear? Glass of milk? Bedtime story? Should I check under the couch for monsters?” he asks and Steve flips him off with a huge yawn.

“G’night, asshole.”

“Night, punk.”

Flipping off the lights, they leave him snug in the warm darkness downstairs, the flames burning low in the fireplace. Steve watches as they walk upstairs together, Bucky patting her on the butt as she walks ahead, muttering something that makes her laugh. Buried in the couch cushions, he smiles drowsily as he listens to their quiet voices get ready for bed, the calming footsteps above, the soothing laughter gliding down the stairs.

It sounds perfect.

Like a home.

Slowly and surely, the firelight lulls him to sleep.

*****

Standing in the bedroom doorway, her mouth curves up at the image.

Leaning against a pile of pillows, Bucky sits with all his letters spread around him, shuffling through them again. They haven’t left his hands all evening, so perfectly enamored with his small treasure, something he never expected.

“Would you like me to write them for you again? So you have fresh copies?”

Squinting up at her, he contemplates the offer, before shaking his head.

“Nah, already have them memorized. Besides, now you can write me new ones. I like to be romanced.”

“Hmm. I had no idea this relationship would be so much work,” she teases.

Gathering up the letters, he places each in the correct envelope, wraps them back up in a fresh piece of cloth, and tucks them into the drawer of his nightstand. Giving her an outrageously sultry look, he clicks off the lamp and pats the bed next to him invitingly.

Slipping under the sheets, she immediately tucks her cold toes against his leg and he yelps at the icy feel, but lifts his arm automatically, letting her nestle into her favorite spot against his chest.

“Good god, you need to wear socks to bed,” he says with a shiver.

“No, I don’t. I have you,” she says happily.

Smothering a laugh, he rolls to face her. Face to face on the same pillow, two pairs of eyes adjust to the dark room. When she traces the back of her knuckles down his cheek, he catches her hand and presses a kiss to her wrist.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“Love you,” she breathes.

Comfortable silence fills the room, and as the minutes tick by, her eyes grow heavy. Sleep never comes easy for him, so Bucky watches her instead, content to fill his sleeplessness with nothing more than the curves and shadows of her face. He can hear her heartbeat slow, her breathing steady, and right before she goes under, a thought pops into his head.

“Darlin’, can I ask you something?”

“Course,” she says sleepily.

“All the stuff you’ve kept over the years, what you had hidden around the house. Why’d you do that? Hide it that way?”

Slow fingers trace up his chest as she thinks, and her voice is low and raspy with a reply.

“I know what it means to lose everything you’ve ever known. Instead of having it all up here,” and she taps her forehead, “I keep things everywhere. Never all together, so I can’t lose everything at once.”

“Are there more things in the house?” he asks curiously, and she hums.

“Lots more,” she answers, and snuggles closer. Closing her eyes, she presses her lips to his skin. “Can I tell you more tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he murmurs.

A moment later, her deep, even breaths tickle his chest and Bucky keeps watching, mesmerized by the sight. Everything he ever wanted, everything he ever  _needed_ , right there. Wrapped up in his arms.

Around them, the room is blanketed in darkness, deep blacks and shades of gray and he thinks about all those memories he’s collected. All that color, good and bad, and what it means to have a past. And then he thinks about the future, free from the turmoil of war, with nothing ahead but the delicate blue of her cool touches and the bright gold of her sunny smiles and the rainbow of color he hears when she laughs.

So many colors. So much time.

The paintbrush in his head lays down to dream. Closing his eyes, Bucky drifts to sleep.

*****

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me over at Tumblr (for as long as that lasts) at bitsandbobsandstuff and listen to me scream about my love of Bucky Barnes, it's a little excessive.


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